'&) 



mm sr w 







gif 




A LITTLE 

GRAY HOME 

IN FRANCE 



•HELEN* 

DAVENPOXO" 

GIBBONS 




J] G 4 O 



Class 



Book., -x^ 



Copyright 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A 

LITTLE GRAY HOME 

IN FRANCE 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/littlegrayhouseiOOgibb 



A 

LITTLE GRAY HOME 

IN FRANCE 



BY 

HELEN DAVENPORT GIBBONS 

Author of ' 'The Red Rugs of Tarsus" 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1919 



-£\o*° 



^v-vl 



Copyright, 1919, by 
The Centuky Co, 



Published, March, 1919 



MAR 24 1919 



3CI.A512804 



lA? 



TO 

RODMAN WANAMAKER 



FOREWORD 

A comfortable Turk, sitting on a dusty- 
cushion making a rug, has eternity before him. 
He can stop when he likes to pull on the 
mouth-piece of his nargileh and dream. He 
dreams about the pattern he is weaving. 

We are weaving to-day. The force that 
moves our shuttle is war. Ours is no simple 
frame like that of the Turkish weaver. And 
the pattern? So complicated that a plain 
body like me cannot make it out. My work 
is to tie up the loose strands I can see and pre- 
vent dropped stitches. 

The boys know they are caught in the work- 
ing of a vast machine. Some take things as 
they come and sing, "I don't care what be- 
comes of me." Some think about what they 
see and wish they could understand. And 
some know that yesterday has slipped back of 
us as a tug drops away from a mighty battle- 
cruiser. They realize that the human mind 

[vii] 



FOREWORD 

can forget, and burn with longing to capture 
impressions as they fly through the days. But 
their work draws out from them all the energy 
there is. The pages of the note-book remain 
white. 

In the study of my Little Gray Home in 
France is an old Brittany wardrobe. As boys 
toast their toes at the fire-place beside it when 
they stop for a breathing space, they tell me 
what they think and what they see. On a 
shelf are paper and pencil, and when I go 
there to get out chocolate or a new pair of 
woolen socks I scratch down hastily what my 
boys have said. When the bowls of coffee 
have been drunk, when the cigarettes have been 
smoked, when their names have been written 
in the guest-book and the boys have hurried 
out into the night to put their two hands on the 
steering wheel of the trucks, I light another 
candle, and write out the notes in more detail. 
Before the initial slow chug-chug tells me they 
have cranked and are getting under way, I 
have tied another loose strand. 

This record belongs to the boys now and 
hereafter, now because they have given me the 

[viii] 



FOREWORD 

stories, hereafter because when we are all 
home again in the sunshine of peace, they will 
have time to remember some of what they did 
here, and these pages may give them a peg to 
hang their coat on when they try to make their 
own record. 

H. D. G. 
Chateau du Loyer, 

Prinquiau par Savenay, 
Loire-Inferieure, 
October, 1918. 



[ix] 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

Foreword . . . . .. . . vii 

I The Little Gray Home .... 3 

II Treating Soldiers Special ... 10 

III The Holy City 21 

IV A Steam Roller . . . . . .42 

V A Corporal 49 

VI They Come 59 

VII Decoration Day 68 

VIII How I Travel 74 

IX A New Poilu Next Door .... 80 

X He Learned His French from a 

Laundress 90 

XI Our Crusaders on "The Fourth" in 

Alsace 99 

XII Tommy and Sammy 114 

XIII Homesickness 120 

XIV Somewhere in the Mud .... 127 
[xi] 



CHAPTER 

XV 



XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 
XXIV 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"Takes a Long Tall Brown-Skin 
Man to Make a German Lay His 
Rifle Down" 139 

A Quarry and a Bus 151 

A Little Dutch Cleanser . . . 162 

Gentlemen All 168 

Where Is Jack? 180 

When We Get Back 193 

The Singing Heights .... 202 

Eight Rubber Boots Standing in a 
Row . . 218 

Going Home ....... 227 

U. S. 911,350 236 



[xii] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME 
IN FRANCE 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME 
IN FRANCE 

CHAPTER I 

THE LITTLE GRAY HOME 

Twelve houses straggle back through the 
wheat fields to form the village of Loyer. 
Mine is the largest. That is why it is called 
the Chateau, although it is no more than a 
"little gray home," the name the American 
soldiers have given it. The other houses of 
Loyer are all hitched to each other. Starting 
with that of the most prosperous peasant, they 
taper down, telescope-wise. At the place 
where you would look for a caboose on a rail- 
way train you see a cuddling thatch. 

The Chateau de Loyer is set far back 
from the road, behind tall trees, in the midst of 

[3] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

a tangled garden. The house is of gray stone, 
like the druid altar in my neighbor's meadow. 
I have looked for years in France for what I 
have found here, a bungalow without having 
to build it. There are two stories, and the 
rooms choo-choo straight along one after the 
other like children's blocks across the nursery 
floor. The house is one room deep, and the 
windows look out down the slope of hills on 
both sides. Because of many front doors 
opening straight into the garden, the house 
has a "room-for-everybody, come-in" air. 
This is confirmed when the boys see the two 
enormous guest-rooms beyond the drawing- 
room. The walls are whitewashed. Above 
the mantelpieces are smoked places, tawny- 
brown camel color. Half a dozen walnut beds, 
smoothed by years of waxing, take up very 
little space. The spreads are the coarse blue 
linen made by the people around here. 

On the table are the things a boy needs for 
writing a letter to mother or bride or sweet- 

[4] 



THE LITTLE GRAY HOME 

heart at home. One boy talked yesterday, 
as he wrote, of somebody's birthday. I shall 
get the present he wants for her, and attend 
to the shipment of it. I leave the cupboard 
doors open, an unspoken invitation to tobacco 
and chocolate and comfort bags on the shelves. 
The hearths are the glory of "The Little Gray 
Home." My bedroom fireplace is high enough 
for three-year-old Hope to walk into and look 
up at the sky. I can burn big logs there. 
Each guest-room has its hearth. Logs and a 
bundle of fagots are always ready to light on a 
rainy day or a cool night. A summer in the 
country in France knows no scorching heat 
waves. Sitting by the fire when it is storming, 
I get comfort from hearing raindrops come 
down with a hiss on a bed of glowing embers. 
I am always glad of an excuse to have an open 
fire. You can keep your tea hot. More boys 
come on rainy days and cold nights, and be- 
fore the fire they become expansive, and I am 
never bored. 

[5] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

A toothless granny with towering starched 
coiffe hitched to sparse, braided hair, and with 
quilted petticoat doubled up around her, scrubs 
every day my floors of well-fitted boards with 
such vigor that the glow in her cheeks makes 
you forget she is wrinkled as a winter apple. 
Madame Criaud, like the rest of my neighbors, 
thinks I am an American heiress, and wonders 
at the curious whim which brings one who 
could go elsewhere with her children to a re- 
mote country place away from her kind. 
Madame Criaud differs from the others only 
because she holds that my being an American 
— ergo, careless of money — is no reason why 
I should be cheated. 

I did not realize how many windows and 
doors with glass panes I had until I came to 
buy curtain material at 1918 prices. Perhaps 
economy led me to tack the headings of the 
creamy scrim curtains one pane below the top 
of the window frame. But I can argue it was 
a desire to keep always visible the line of wind- 

[6] 



THE LITTLE GRAY HOME 

mills of the Dutch type that run along the 
shoulder of the hill until they disappear. The 
last one lies so low that its arms curve and 
dip like porpoises. But if there were no wind- 
mills, the checker-board of little grain fields, 
interspersed with meadows where grass is Irish 
green, would justify not excluding the outlook 
from any window. When it has been raining, 
and women and boys toss hay in the sunshine, 
you smell clover and wet air. 

At the other end of the house from the 
ground-floor guest-rooms is a fat old kitchen, 
which has its own flight of stairs leading to 
the upper floor. The artist, dressed in khaki, 
and with a war correspondent's brassard on 
his arm, dropped in unexpectedly on a sketch- 
ing trip through Base One. I took him 
around the house, for I wanted to know if I 
was right in my idea that the place was artistic. 
He didn't stop to put in a guest-room the 
khaki school-bag slung over his shoulder with 
a strap. The artist's baggage is mostly a 

[7] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

thick wad of sketching paper. When we came 
to the kitchen, he stood beaming, with head 
thrown back and eyes half closed. His fingers 
began to unfasten the strap of the kit, and he 
sat down on my flreless cooker to sketch the 
black-from-smoke stairway in the corner, with 
Madame Criaud leaning over a table picking a 
chicken. "But, Lester, have you lunched?" I 
asked. He answered: "This is great stuff, 
Helen, great stuff." 

The wood pile outside the kitchen door is 
nearly as high as the house, and protects 
chicken-run and rabbit-warren from the sea 
wind. Servants sleep in a lodge by the gate. 
The floor of the summer house is high enough 
from the ground for the children to see over 
the garden wall. When autos are heard com- 
ing up the hill, Christine and Lloyd and Mimi 
rush out and shout. Baby Hope waddles after 
them, waving her fat hands and piping, "Les 
AmericainSj les Americains!" 

[8] 



THE LITTLE GRAY HOME 

"Hello! Come in and see our mother," 
shouted the other three. 
And so we make our friends. 



D>] 



CHAPTER II 

TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL 

I said, "Where is the ball?" 

Lloyd patted my shoulder to attract atten- 
tion. I put my coffee cup back on the saucer 
and guessed that the ball might still be behind 
the cushions of a steamer-chair in the garden 
where he had hidden it yesterday when Baby 
wanted it. Mother is supposed to know where 
things are. Grandma says that when grandpa 
used to ask for his Sunday trousers she would 
answer that the last time she wore them she 
hung them in the bedroom cupboard. 

Boys are alike, wherever you find them. 
Girls' hair is pulled in Siberia and South 
Africa. Jam is hunted in Denmark and Ar- 
gentina. Prisoner's base is played as belliger- 

[10] 



TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL 

ently in the Hague as in Berlin. A piece of 
gingerbread produces the same reaction on 
Turkish and American boys. 

If grandpa, when he saw his son's sons, was 
still boy enough to ask the whereabouts of his 
Sunday trousers, is n't that proof that our men 
folk never grow up? 

Soldiers are boys. I see, behind sunburned 
foreheads, surprise and hurt when some one 
has treated them impersonally. Though a 
necessary phrase, "You are in the army now," 
is none the less a hard phrase. Military disci- 
pline and uniform dress are leveling forces, 
essential to the machine. But there are mo- 
ments when our boys are not on duty or parade. 

When the ball is lost, my little son expects 
me to find it. Whatever he wants, it is for 
mother to give it to him quickly. Soldiers do 
not like to have to ask for a glass of cider or 
a cigarette. If the comfort bags are put where 
a soldier is free to pick out things to replace 
what somebody stole from his kit at the bar- 

[11] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

racks, he will feel at home. Nothing is more 
appreciated than to give a fellow a chance, 
without studying to make it, to sit down and 
tell how he and his girl waited instead of rush- 
ing into a war wedding. 

After the Germans had been throwing shells 
into our quarter of Paris for twelve days, some 
of which landed in my children's only play- 
ground, the Luxembourg Gardens, I felt that 
it was time to get them away. It was only 
Easter, so we went to Aix-les-Bains for the 
month of April. I did not want to return 
to my villa on the sea at Houlgate this summer. 
Contact with American soldiers in the camps, 
when I was lecturing for the Y. M. C. A., and 
in the Savoy leave area, had made me want 
to work out my own ideas about treating 
soldiers special. The Little Gray Home was 
chosen because it lies at the middle point along 
a seventeen-kilometer stretch of country high- 
way where the soldier, bound inland from the 
Holy City, finds only a chilly buvette. The 

[12] 



TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL 

woman who dispenses drinks there knows that 
she does n't have to go out and chase the pot 
of gold at the end of a rainbow — her fortune 
rolls in on motor trucks. Heavy motor traffic 
from the Holy City to points all over France 
passes us constantly, and the largest hospital 
center of the American Expeditionary Forces 
is four miles from the Little Gray Home. 

A truck passes every morning when we are 
at breakfast. The boys throw out newspapers. 
Several motor cycles aim to go by at lunch 
time. A steam-tractor crew sends in a man 
to ask for permission to get water from our 
well for the boiler. Before the tractor starts 
toiling again northward, the soldiers have 
mended the windlass so that the pail does not 
fall into the water and have to be fished out 
patiently every time by my cook, Rosalie. 

Soldiers from many camps hire bicycles for 
a ride on Sunday morning. As they wheel 
by our gate, Mimi wants to know if they like 
France. The surprise of hearing a kid speak 

[13] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

English in this out-of-way spot jolts the sol- 
diers off their bicycles. They come in for 
cookies and coffee, while I mend a rent in a 
flannel shirt. To be able to strut around in 
my husband's light-blue dressing-gown for 
half an hour is such a relief from khaki uni- 
form that I am told it is as good a vacation 
as a week's fishing trip. A motor, new and 
stiff, gets cranky in front of our house. After 
it has been coaxed into action again, so much 
time has been lost that there is still enough to 
eat waffles and maple syrup. I tell the boys 
I don't wish anybody bad luck, but if they 
must break down, for goodness' sake do it near 
us. 

Truck-trains in command of convoy pilots— 
usually second lieutenants — generally leave the 
Holy City in the late afternoon. They aim 
only to get clear of the park and test their new 
motors before the first night's stop. Last 
night a convoy slowed down here. I ran along 
until I reached the Cadillac at the head of the 

[14] 



TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL 

line. When the tall lieutenant stepped out of 
his car, I greeted him: 

"I 'm glad to see you. How do you do!" 

"You — you — speak English?" 

"Of course. I was born in Philadelphia." 

"Good Lord!" allowed the lieutenant, "and 
I in Chester." 

I found that he was just going to look for 
a field where he and his men could camp. I 
told him I had guest-rooms with enough beds 
for him and the other officers, and that I could 
put up all the men around my place some- 
where. There was the room over the kitchen, 
the woodshed, the carriage house, and a very 
large barn-loft. 

While the officers and sergeants were mak- 
ing arrangements for the night, I discovered 
six lads who had missed out on the mess deal 
before the convoy left the Holy City. When 
Rosalie was giving them something to eat, I 
asked if they, too, were surprised to find that 
I was an American. 

[15] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"No," said a young Southerner. "No 
Frenchwoman can run like you." 

Some of the men gathered around the sum- 
mer house, where they had carried pails of 
water to indulge in a moonlight scrub. Others 
were spreading out their bedding-rolls in the 
barn. Mademoiselle Alice, my children's gov- 
erness, cannot speak English, but she found a 
corporal who knew German. He helped her 
carry the iron tripod and the caldron from 
the kitchen and found a safe place for them in 
the garden. They were chattering away in 
the enemy's lingo as they broke up a bundle of 
fagots and piled them under the caldron ready 
to start a fire quickly in the morning. 

Half a dozen boys who had parked their 
trucks had come into the house to my study 
fire. I asked them, "What are you, boys, 
aviators?" 

"No, ma'am, only when we get refused a 
pass. Then we do go up in the air." 

After they had seen to everything, the offi- 
[16] 



TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL 

cers had their supper with us. The way you 
recognize a good officer is by the care he gives 
his men. The dining-room all ready for the 
lieutenants: drawn-work runner on the table, 
yellow candlesticks, blue Brittany bowls rilled 
with hot chocolate to warm them up after a 
tough day's work. Soft-boiled eggs and tiny 
gold-bowled spoons to eat them with. Cam- 
embert cheese and toast. How I wished it 
were possible to have a dainty meal for every 
one in the crowd ! 

When I lighted the officers to bed, one of 
them observed : "It is only fair for me to tell 
you before I go into your guest-room that I 
am full of cooties." 

"That may be — and it is equally true that 
other boys have come here like that too." 

"Doesn't that shock you? Doesn't me 
either. It is not their board bill I mind — it 
is their traveling expenses." 

At five o'clock next morning every mother's 
son had a pint of hot coffee. One hundred 

[17] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

marched through my rose garden in the early 
sunshine and filed by the range where I ladled 
out the coffee. The only trouble with the 
aluminum cups in the mess-kits is that they get 
so hot you burn your mouth on them. Luck- 
ily, the mess sergeant gave me some tins of 
ground coffee to add to mine, and the drink was 
nice and strong. On a table near by I had put 
roses and doilies and milk and sugar. The 
sergeant had added tins of baked beans. I 
shivered when I saw the beans were going to 
be eaten cold. But the soldiers told me they 
were used to that. The boys came on through 
the dining-room where some one was cutting 
bread. They were invited to sit down in hall 
and drawing-room. There were too many of 
them for all to sit down at one time, but the 
process of getting served was slow enough to 
make room for those that were actually eat- 
ing. When they finished, they signed their 
names in my guest book and got a cigarette. 
Then they went to the well to wash mess-kits 

[18] 



TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL 

and fill canteens. Several boys had hung little 
mirrors on trees and were comfortably shaving. 

"Gee — it 's nice to get into somebody's 
home," said one. 

"Do you know, this is the first time I have 
eaten food I did not have to pay for — outside 
of our own mess — since we left Hoboken." 

"Hey, can-opener, you got a match? We 
call the guy that handles the rations on these 
convoys can-opener." 

"I was just looking for you, Mrs. Gibbons," 
said Mr. Can-Opener. "Found a good knife 
in your kitchen. Would you be good enough 
to swap it for these?" "These" were four 
loaves of bread. He put them on my desk, 
and patted the pocket out of which stuck my 
knife. A soldier came up to me and inquired : 
"Say, lady, where do you pay for this here?" 

"Can you read?" 

"Course I can read." 

"Did you happen to see the sign on my 
gate?" 

[19] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"What does it say?" 

"A Little Gray Home in France." 

"Did you see that the biggest word on that 
sign is home?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Then don't talk to me about paying, boy." 

The children were put into an ancient roll- 
ing-chair found in the barn, and dragged to the 
head of the line. I followed with the lieu- 
tenants. 

The top sergeant blew a whistle. Motors 
began to chug-chug. The line moved slowly. 
Shouts. Cheering. A Philadelphia boy took 
the insignia off his collar and fired them at 
my feet as he passed. One truck-load of 
boys sang, "There 's a Long, Long Trail 
a-Winding into No-Man's Land." Some one 
stood up and waved his hat. He called 
"Good-by— " (a pause)— "Mother!" 



[30] 



CHAPTER III 

THE HOLY CITY 

In the Little Gray Home I was marooned. 
I tried to rent a pony and cart. Then I let 
it be known among the peasants that I was 
in the market for the purchase of a horse. 
Military people, congressmen on joy rides, and 
endless bands of folks inspecting seem to be 
the only ones that move about quickly and 
easily. 

In what category am I? Convoys do not 
always have provisions. To be able to offer a 
good meal at any time means giving aid and 
comfort to the soldier. Food I must have, 
and there is only one way to get it — buy it 
from Uncle Sam. The colonel says he is go- 
ing to make me a mess sergeant. Until ra- 

[21] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

tions are sent to me, I must forage. Yes, 
I am military. 

When the meat truck from the hospital 
passed, I hailed the driver. 

"Coming along with you, Tony, this morn- 
ing!" said I, climbing up to the seat and sitting 
down beside him. 

"Sure you are!" Tony profited by the stop 
to light a cigarette. "Off for the Holy City," 
he said, putting his overcoat on my lap ; "that 's 
the nearest we '11 get to home for God knows 
when!" 

As we bumped over a grade crossing, an 
M. P. stepped out. Holding up his stick, he 
shouted, 

"Girls ain't allowed to ride on motor- 
trucks!" 

Tony looked at me. 

"Thinks you 're a French mademoiselle," 
whispered Tony. "Gosh! Mrs. Gibbons, you '11 
have to get me out of this!" 

I leaned over and smiled at the M. P. 
[22] 



THE HOLY CITY 



"Come here, boy," I said. "Put your hand 



in mine." 



He did it, slowly and wonderingly. 

"If there 's ever anything I can do for you, 
I want you to tell me," I said. "I 'm thirty- 
five years old. No one has called me 'ghT for 
years. I 'm flattered and touched!" 

The M. P. put his stick back of him. He 
backed. "Y-y-yes, ma'am," said he. 

Since then no M. P. has stopped me. Word 
has gone up and down the line, "Better not 
touch that woman, she 's loaded." 

We were approaching the Holy City. 

"I 'm proud to be an American when I look 
at the work our men have done here. I have 
been doing this route for a year now. Every 
time I go through this town it looks more like 
Jersey City." 

"It didn't look like Jersey City when the 
first Americans landed, Tony. That was the 
month before you came over. The censorship 
thought the great event could be concealed. 

[23] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

No mention in the newspapers of this or any 
other port. But we all knew about it before- 
hand — concierge as soon as cabinet minister. 
Of course I jumped on a train with my hus- 
band, and we came to greet the boys. Dear 
me, how homesick that first bunch was inside 
of twenty-four hours ! The Holy City was n't 
any holier then than it is now. But it was 
very strange and foreign. Those two adjec- 
tives, you know, are the same in French. The 
end of June, 1917! Scarcely a year ago. 
And to follow this long road for miles to-day, 
flanked on both sides with American camps 
and depots and endless railroad tracks, where 
there were only cat-tails last year, to see these 
ships with the American flag, — more American 
ships than I 've seen together at one time in 
all my life before, and I know East and West 
rivers well, — it makes me feel that Aladdin's 
lamp has been rubbed. Aladdin's lamp has 
been rubbed by Uncle Sam, and if he 's done 
all this, it 's because not one genius appeared, 

[24] 



THE HOLY CITY 

but millions. You fellows are the genii, 
Tony." 

"I don't know what that may be, Mrs. 
Gibbons, but we 're it all right, if you say 
so." 

A Cadillac passed us quickly in the other 
direction. Shouts. Arms waving. 

"Again?" said Tony, dejected. "They 're 
stopping." 

A long-legged fellow with a black mustache 
was running back toward us. 

"They want us," said Tony. "It 5 s a cap- 
tain. You ought to get the chief M. P. to 
make you out a pass and stamp it proper." 

"Here you are!" said the captain. "I Ve 
been looking all over France for you! Did 
you ever get letters from me?" 

"I certainly did, Whit, and answered them, 
too." 

"What are you doing here, Helen?" 

"Spending the summer." 

"Far from here?" 

[25] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Not very. Just came from there this 
morning. How long have we been, Tony?" 

"An hour," said Tony. 

"An hour by motor truck," said Whit. "I 
can make it in half an hour. I '11 come up to 
see you Sunday, if you '11 be there." 

"Come for the week-end, Whit," said I, 
"and make friends with my children." 

"I '11 do that if you don't make them call 
me Uncle, and if you let me bring Johnny 
along." 

"Be there Saturday afternoon then with 
Johnny, whoever he is!" 

"Johnny is a pal of mine, prince of a fellow, 
if he did go to Princeton. You '11 like 
Johnny." 

"I certainly shall, but I am surprised at 
you, fifteen years out of Yale ! You 're still 
the kid I used to know — with that Princeton 
stuff." 

"Strange, isn't it, that I should have said 
that. But over here we older fellows, living 

[26] 



THE HOLY CITY 

with the youngsters, get right back where we 
were in 1900." 

"Come, Tony," I said, "the waiting line at 
the commissary will be getting too long." 

"Wait," said Whit, "why don't you lunch 
with me to-day? Meet me at Marie's restau- 
rant at twelve-thirty. I '11 arrange my work 
so we can show you the shops this afternoon." 

"Shops? What kind of shops?" 

"Railroad shops, of course," said he. 

"Of course," I answered. "Whitfield, you 
are one of the few people I know that knew 
what they were going to be from the begin- 
ning. You have stuck to your choo-choo cars 
since you wore knee-caps and hated to get your 
ears washed." 

"Ain't it funny," said Tony, when we 
started on, "how we find old friends over here. 
I'm doin' that all the time." 

"Yes, Tony," I answered. "I've called 
that captain's mother Aunt Louise ever since 
I can remember." 

[27] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"You sure must go with him to see the shops. 
I got an early start this morning. I '11 wait 
at the commissary till you buy your stuff, and 
I can take it out and leave it at the Little Gray 
Home as easy as not. And it '11 save you the 
trouble." 

"All right, Tony," I answered. "I do 
hope the Captain has his children's pictures in 
his pocket. I 've never seen them." 

At luncheon in the restaurant at the table 
sitting next to us were two ensigns and three 
second lieutenants. The restaurant girl said, 

"Quel vin desirez-vous, blanc ou rouge?" 

"Pas de vin." 

Marie brings carafes of water and, laughing 
as she puts them on the table, she says, "Du 
vin Americain, alors!" 

Before the American invasion, if people 
lunching there had refused to buy wine, Marie 
would have been mystified or angry. Now 
she receives with equanimity the "Pas de vin." 

When Whitfield paid for the lunch, he gave 
[28] 



THE HOLY CITY 

Marie a hundred-franc note. While we were 
waiting for the change, he said, 

"My hundred-franc notes are not money to 
me— they look more like bills of lading." 

"Choo-choo cars again." 

When the captain's motor drew up in front 
of the shops we saw a colored fellow riding a 
mule. He was directing a detail of negro 
soldiers unloading heavy triangular steel 
frames for bridge building. The negro cor- 
poral jumped down off the mule and saluted 
the captain. 

The mule was restless. 

"Halt!" the corporal commanded. The 
mule stopped. He walked around the mule, 
and cried, "At ease!" 

"Did you get that?" said the captain. 
"Negro troops are an endless source of amuse- 
ment to me. Nigs love paraphernalia. They 
take military stuff theatrically." 

"Yes," I said, "their tools are stage busi- 



ness." 



[29] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"But they play their role well," said the 
captain. 

The negroes were carrying one of the steel 
frames now. 

"Git yo' shouldahs agin dat," commanded 
the corporal. "You-all done tole Uncle Sam 
you would. Push now, you-all Yanks !" 

"We ain't Yanks," protested one. "We 's 
f'om Virginia!" 

"Easy now! Mind yo' co'ns," said the cor- 
poral. 

The burden slipped into place on top of a 
pile, and the negroes slouched along singing, 

"Gawd don't have no coward soldiers in His band, 
Ah 'm goin' to climb up Jacob's ladder some dese 

days, 
Every round goes higher en higher, 
Gawd don't hev no coward soldiers in His band." 

"That's one of their working songs," said 
the captain. "Heavy work, moving steel, but 
they do relax between times." 

We went in the office to pick up Johnny, 
[30] 



THE HOLY CITY 

and met the colonel in charge of the stevedores. 

"Been watching your black soldiers work- 
ing," said I. "Listening to their talk makes 
me homesick!" 

"Great boys," said the colonel. "The other 
night I was n't feeling very well. Dog-tired 
after a hard day. Had my boy wash my feet 
and give me a rub-down. A nigger makes the 
best orderly in the world. There is something 
of the old mammy left in many of them. I 've 
seen my boy come back after he had settled me 
for the night and ask, 'You sick?' and when 
I 'd ask him why, he would reply, "Don't 
know — 'pears to me you is oneasy and too 
quiet.' I was lying there and he was rubbing 
my back when he broke out with : 

" 'C'n'l — is dere eny chance fo' me to go to 
de front ?' 

" 'What do you want to go to the front for, 
Nelson?' 

"'When Ah jined, Ah thought Ah 'd be 
daid befoh dis en Ah jes well go now.' 

[31] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

" 'Nelson, I 've read in the paper to-night 
that the Germans cut off the ears of all col- 
ored troops captured/ 

" 'You doan' say, sir!' 

"Then after a silence, quite a little interval: 

" 'C'n'l, Ah wants to go anyway, dey cain't 
cut urn off 'n all ob us.' " 

Johnny was not to be found. We left a 
note for him to join us later. 

In the shop a locomotive body, held high in 
the grip of a mighty crane, was lowered slowly 
and put into place on waiting wheels. The 
captain was delivering a lecture on choo- 
choos. 

"Got to know the laws of physics to under- 
stand the load she will pull," said he, finally. 

"When do you put on the stack?" I asked. 

"About the last thing — smallest part. But 
I suppose the most obvious to a layman." 

The captain and a soldier mechanic walked 
up the tracks with me to a completed engine. 
A girl in grimy overalls and with a heavy ham- 

[8£] 



THE HOLY CITY 

mer in her hand passed us. The soldier 
glanced around, then lagged behind to talk to 
the girl. 

Running to catch up with us again, the sol- 
dier said, 

"Captain, guess folks back home wouldn't 
believe me if I told them I was in love with 
the village blacksmith." 

The mechanic jumped on to the engine. 

"Fired up, isn't she?" asked the captain. 
"2047 was put together yesterday. We '11 test 
her now if you like. You may start her. 
Pull this hard." 

I pulled hard. 2047 glided slowly out of 
the shop along the river track. 

"Speed her up! Fred," said the captain. 

2047 carried us swiftly out into the coun- 
try. 

The captain and Fred pulled levers, made 
calculations, kept their eyes on the gage. 
"You can ring the bell at the grade crossing," 
said the captain. "Pull this string." 

[33] 






A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

The test was finished. 

"Take it easy going back to the shop," said 
the captain. 

"I 'm told American soldiers call French lo- 
comotives teapots," said I. 

"No," replied Fred, "peanut roasters!" 

"There are fewer accidents on French rail- 
roads," I suggested. 

"That may be, but look at their mail service. 
We oil up an engine and put her in the pink 
of condition, then run her like the devil to save 
four hours on a mail run. Hard on the en- 
gine, I grant you — but what 's wearing out 
an engine if you can beat a record? Com- 
petition's fierce in the U. S. A. No; the 
French save the engine and lose the con- 
tract." 

"Let us off at the lower road, Fred," said 
the captain. "I want to take Mrs. Gibbons 
over to the mess to get some tea. Mind the 
yard is clear for out-going engines at seven- 
teen-thirty." 

[34] 



THE HOLY CITY 

"I see you use the French time-schedule," I 
remarked. 

"Got to hand it to them when it comes to 
their way of telling time — that and the metric 
system." 

The soldiers' barracks in this camp are the 
oldest American barracks in France. Before 
one I saw a little dooryard. The path was 
picked out with smooth cobble-stones painted 
white. A soldier was sitting on the bench by 
the door. We stopped a moment to speak to 
him. "Why did you paint your house black?" 
I asked. 

"Locomotive color," answered the boy. 

"Are you responsible for this pretty door- 
yard?" I asked. 

"Well — some," he said. "These here morn- 
ing glories are camouflage — they 're to make 
us think we got a garden." 

We found Johnny in the officers' dining- 
room. 

"Don't let 's have tea here," he said. "Let 's 
[35] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

run the car over to the hospital. I know a 
nurse there — " 

"Who will give us tea?" said Whitfield. 

"Sure," answered Johnny. 

We waited in the garden of the hospital for 
Miss Smith to come down. We had tea at a 
little table under a tree. Convalescent sol- 
diers were sitting about smoking and talking. 
Some strolled about sunning ugly wounds. 

After tea, Whit and Johnny went back to 
the shops. Miss Smith was going to. a hos- 
pital-train that had arrived at the railroad sta- 
tion with men invalided home. 

"Let 's walk over," suggested the nurse. 
"One has to wait so long sometimes to get a 
chance at an ambulance." 

"What do you do when these trains come 
in?" I asked. 

"I go down when I can. There is always 
something one can do, if it is only to light a 
cigarette." 

[36] 



THE HOLY CITY 

"How do the boys feel about being sent 
home?" I asked. 

"I see only those at our own hospital and 
those on the trains that are directed to the 
dock. When they first arrive at our hospital, 
there is talk about going home. It is in the 
air: men are sad or surly about it. Some are 
bitterly opposed. When they have had the 
medical examination and the decision is made, 
the blow has fallen. Then comes a period of 
adjustment, and when the findings of our ex- 
amining committee are accepted, men go over 
their little possessions. They are wondering 
how much of their junk, as they call it, they 
will be allowed to take along." 

"What on earth do they pick out to take?" 

"Souvenirs and dogs," she answered, smil- 
ing. "One boy set great store by a setter he 
called Liberty. He had actually brought that 
dog with him from America. When he was 
told he was to go to the States after his stump 

[37] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

healed, — his leg was amputated, — he buried his 
face in Liberty's neck and I heard him say, 
When you and I left Chicago we had a round- 
trip ticket and did n't know it.' " 

We mounted the hospital train, and seated 
ourselves on the edge of a bunk. Two order- 
lies were making up bunks at the other end of 
the car. Stretcher cases were being carried 
out tenderly and placed on the platform to 
wait their turn. Ambulances were plying to 
and fro between the station and the docks. 

A Y. M. C. A. entertainer with a lovely 
contralto voice was singing. A soldier was 
singing with her. The loss of his right arm 
had not changed the quality of his tenor voice. 
Experience had worked hope. 

"You see how they are," said the nurse, 
drawing her blue cape about her, "once they 
know their bit is done, they sing. If a man is 
booked to leave with a certain transport, and at 
the last minute his sailing has to be delayed a 
week, his heart is broken. We had to post a 

[38] 



THE HOLY CITY 

sign on the door to the office where the lists 
are made up : 

"If you want to wait two weeks longer to go home 
— come in and ask us if your name is on the list for 
to-morrow's boat." 

I stepped into the next coach where men 
were waiting for the stretcher bearers. 

"I had a pal," said one. "We used to go 
to dances together in Denver. He '11 never 
dance again, that bird. Right leg shot off — 
was with the Marines up the line. He sailed 
with the last bunch. " 

"Was he glad to go home?" I put in. 

"Was he glad! Better than staying here 
in France, planted in the ground and wearing 
a wooden kimono!" 

"I ain't glad," said another. "I'd rather go 
and bump off a few more Dutchmen than go 
home now." 

"Won't you be glad when there 's no more 
corn-willy?" said I. 

[39] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Corn-willy won't kill a soldier," laughed the 
boy, "but listen, we fed some to a dog. He 
went over, planked down, and pail" 

"Corn-willy hasn't been popular in your 
outfit since then?" 

"No, ma'am! We all felt catchy after that, 
I '11 tell the world." 

Two streams meet at the Holy City. The 
incoming stream, thousands of troops debark- 
ing every week, brings victory. When our 
boys arrive, they look so young. I have be- 
come accustomed in France, during four long 
years, to fresh faces with the light of youth 
in their eyes, but yet with the indelible traces 
of suffering. The smile of the new-comers 
gives me courage sorely needed. To see them 
is more than a sparkling vision of home. It 
is the assurance that the future is good. 

Does not the outgoing stream carry back 
to America also victory? There are scars, 
regrets for pals, but a new vision of life. No 
man that goes down into the shadow of the 

[40] 



THE HOLY CITY 

valley of death is the same afterwards. 
Broken bodies, wrecked nerves, you say? — 
Ah! — but tempered souls. The message they 
bear in their bodies is a message of triumph. 
They, who have paid the price, are the van- 
guard of the returning victors. Vanguard of 
the victorious A. E. F. — in both directions! 



[41] 



CHAPTER IV 

A STEAM ROLLER 

It was a rainy day, so the children could not 
play in the garden. They settled themselves 
in my study. We had been reading Dotty 
Dimple stories since lunch. The wind blew 
the door open. 

"Close it quickly, Christine," I cried, "be- 
fore mother's papers fly everywhere." 

"Oh, Mama," said she, "there 's a soldier 
looking in our gate." 

"Get an umbrella, dear, and run out to see 
if he wants something." 

In a few minutes she returned, leading a 
huge, tall fellow by the hand. 

"Hello!" said I, and shook hands with him. 
"Come right over and put your name in my 

[42] 



A STEAM ROIXER 

guest-book. It bothers me to get well started 
making friends with people and then find I 
don't know their names. First your name on 
this line, please, with your rank and army 
post-office address. Then on the next line the 
name of some woman: mother, sister, wife, or 
sweetheart. Some day soon I '11 write her a 
letter, saying you are well and cheerful, and 
send your love." 

"Lady, I didn't want to bother nobody," 
he said slowly. "I was lookin' for a drink. 
This ain't no cafe." He was putting on his 
hat again. 

"I — I didn't want to bother nobody." 

"But you 're not bothering me, my dear boy. 
I can give you a drink. What will you have? 
Some cider? Maybe you 'd rather take a cup 
of hot coffee." 

"It blowed the breath clean out of me when 
this little miss came out there and told me to 
come in and see her mama. I wondered if 
I was dreaming and had-a got back home 

[43] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

some way. The little girl spoke good Ameri- 
can." 

"I didn't hear a truck — are you traveling 
on foot?" I asked. 

"No, ma'am, we 're a crew of three runnin' 
a steam roller. We 're headed for the hos- 
pital at Savenay. Goin' to do road building 
with the Blank Teenth Engineers." 

"Where are the others?" 

"They 're bringin' the roller. It 's goin' 
slow up the hill. I came on ahead. We been 
lookin' for some boovette where we could hawl 
up a while and get a drink to wash down our 
lunch." 

"My soul, it 's after one and you have n't 
had lunch!" I exclaimed. 

"No, ma'am. Say, come on out with me, 
lady, and give my pals apoplexy like you did 
me. 

Patrick waved to the boys on the steam rol- 
ler. They had just got to the top of the hill 
and could come a little faster now. The en- 

[44] 



A STEAM ROLLER 

gine stopped coughing with one final hiccough. 
The big wheels buried themselves comfortably 
in the mud. 

"Sandy, my boy," cried Patrick, "ye '11 
never believe what I 'm goin' to tell ye now. 
This lady is an American." 

"Just as American as you are," said I. 
"How-do-you-do." I shook hands with 
Sandy. 

"Are you Irish, too, like Patrick and me?" 
I asked the engineer, who was closing the 
furnace door. He lifted his grimy head and 
looked at me solemnly. 

"No, put I vish I vas!" 

"Aw, go-awn, Heiny," said Sandy, patting 
the engineer's shoulder. "You 're as good an 
American as Uncle Sammy ever slapped into 
uniform." 

"Patrick tells me you have had no lunch," I 
began. 

"And I told ye, too, I did n't want to bother 
nobody, mind that !" cried Patrick. 

[45] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"What were you going to have for lunch?" 
I enquired. 

"A tin of goldfish, a couple of onions, and 
some bread," said Heiny. 

"Leave the goldfish and onions where they 
are. Bring the bread along — I 'm short of 
that," said I. 

We left the steam roller and walked across 
the road. Sandy opened the gate and let me 
pass through first. 

"I know'd you was an American," said he, 
beaming. 

"Yes," said Patrick, "and she 's got a bunch 
of kids in there that when you look at them, you 
don't know whether to laugh or to cry. Gits a 
fellow on his soft side," he went on; "that baby 
is a humdinger." 

Four little faces were flattened against the 
window-pane and laughing eyes peered out 
through wet waving ivy. 

"How does this country strike you?" I 
asked. 

[46] 



A STEAM ROLLER 

"I 'm like the 'shine' — stevedore he was — 
who said: 'Ef I owned dis country I 'd give 
it to the Kaiser and 'pologise fo' de condition 
it 's in/ " said Sandy. 

"I like it fine," protested Patrick. "These 
French ain't ugly — they 're real friendly, real 
fried easy goin'. They 're Frogs, see?" 

"If you gentlemen would like to wash off 
some of that coal dust — " 

"Veil, I vas chust vorryin' about dot some. 
I vos sayin' to m'self how are ve a-goin' to git 
avay mit dem dirty faces. Ve ain't in your 
class." 

"That 's nothing, how can you work around 
a steam roller and not get black?" I brought 
them hot water from the kitchen and showed 
them the comfort bags. It was just a fancy 
of mine that gave me the keenest possible pleas- 
ure to put my best center-piece and napkins 
for these boys. It was the cook's day off, and 
when the boys reappeared, I had put together 
a good little luncheon. 

[47] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"The dining-room is this way," I said. 

"Aw, don't put us in the dining-room," 
remonstrated Patrick. "We belong in the 
kitchen." 

I turned on him. "If the Germans were in- 
vading this valley," I said, "you would n't let 
them catch me and my children if you could 
help it, would you?" 

"There 'd be three more dead Yanks first!" 
said Patrick. 

"Pet y'r poots der voodl" corroborated 
Heiny. 

"Then hush your fuss and sit down. Noth- 
ing 's too good for you boys !" 



[48] 



CHAPTER V 

A CORPORAL 

"Any mail?" The corporal shut the juice 
off his machine, swung a long leg around the 
saddle, and stood smiling at my gate. 

"Come in till I write the address on the en- 
velope," I answered. 

The corporal stops every morning. The 
letters I give him get a twenty-four hours' 
start on the French facteur, who travels on 
foot. 

"Saw a Ford car in a ditch below here. 
Couple of Frogs in it. Lucky they didn't 
get hurt. They got theirs for coming on our 
road. That 's funny, too. Queer how a fel- 
low gets to thinking this place belongs to us. 
Gee ! ain't we going to have a bee-utif ul mix-up 

[49] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

when we have to straighten up whose is which. 
For instance, that there reclaimed land be- 
tween here and the sea — whose is it? Ameri- 
can soldiers have already won territory with- 
out seein' a living bullet. All them boys had 
to fight was plain water. One thing sure these 
French never would of used that land till 
Kingdom Come. Whose is it, I say? An- 
swer me that, Mrs. Gibbons ! Why, it belongs 
to Uncle Sam. The Blank Teenth Engineers 
got it for the old boy." 

"What I don't see," commented Christine, 
"is why Uncle Sam sends all his boys over here 
and never comes himself. Do you ever use 
your pistol?" she went on, as the despatch rider 
put his coat on a study chair. 

"Ever use that?" he exclaimed. "Guess I 
did! And gosh darn fast. Killed plenty of 
Germans up at Shato-Theery, but I was no 
despatch rider then. Where are your ciga- 
rettes?" 

"Here in the basket," I answered, as I pulled 
[50] 



A CORPORAL 

the steamer chair around to the fireplace. "Sit 
down and have your smoke. The other day 
you had got to the place where you heard you 
were to go to the front." 

"We was in the trenches at Montdidier when 
that word came. That was on the fourteenth 
of July. We rolled our packs and waited till 
the fellows came up to relieve us. They come 
about nine o'clock and we shifted reliefs. We 
went out of them trenches back to a little town 
where they inspected our equipment. Gave 
us two more boxes of hardtack and an extra can 
of corn-willy. Also an extra pair of shoes. 
We piled on trucks. They took us close to 
the third line. We left the trucks and started 
to hike. Marched till daylight. And we were 
then where we could see German observation 
balloons. We rested that day and stayed un- 
der cover. As soon as it got dark, we started 
again. Marched all night, passing tanks — 
French tanks — and machine-gun battalions. 
At five minutes to four we came to a little town. 

[51] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

We were told that we was to give Fritz a whip- 
pin' that morning. We were close behind our 
first lines. Everything was quiet. It was 
raining. 

"Two large guns opened on each end and 
one small one in the middle. The earth 
started trembling and it became light as day. 
Five minutes after the barrage was on, we 
went over the top. Just as I was going, the 
cap. told me I was now a corporal. The 
German outposts threw up their hands, and 
we took them prisoners. We passed them 
and went on where we could see the German 
first lines. Found the Germans standing on 
top of the parapets with their hands up in the 
air. We took them prisoners and got their 
second line. The Germans opened fire on us 
from machine-guns put up in trees. The 
tanks came and shot 'em out. Gee! Them 
Germans dropped like squirrels. I walked 
along with a machine-gun. When we 
reached their third line, they were tryin' to 

[52] 



A CORPORAL 

get out. 'T ain't no good taking prisoners 
and splitting grub with them. We put a ma- 
chine-gun at the end of a trench and began 
shootin' 'em down — pilin' 'em up — till the 
lieutenant came over and told us to take 
prisoners. 

"Behind that third line the Germans had 
their stores. I crawled in a window — they was 
all packin' in there — and I got two pair of 
socks, two pair of shoes, a belt, and two pistols. 
Our officers chased us out, so we started look- 
ing around to see what else we could find. 
Went down into a dug-out — German officers' 
dug-out — where we found a chest with a pad- 
lock on it. We kicked the lock off. In there 
were two cases of beer and two jugs of rum." 

"Good beer?" 

"You bet — lager beer. Couldn't be beat. 
We each drank a bottle of beer. Tapped the 
jugs of rum, filled two canteens, and drank the 
remainder. 

"Feelin' pretty good, we went out after 
[53] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

more Dutchmen. Ducked down into a dug- 
out to get away from German barrage — and let 
our barrage go on over. Saw a German lieu- 
tenant laying below on a cot with a hole in his 
leg. I went down the stairs, and when I come 
to the door he had a pistol pulled on me. He 
snapped it, but it did not go off. Afraid he 'd 
try again. So I took my forty-five and 
tapped him real gently on the head. I did n't 
aim to hit him so hard, but I put him over the 
Big Divide. I took his watch, his pistol, his 
ring with his name on it, and two hundred and 
seventy Dutch marks which I still have in my 
possession, also the shell he snapped at me. 
"It was beginning to get dark then. We 
advanced to a swamp close to a little town held 
by the Germans. We took some hand-gren- 
ades after dark to scare Fritz in the town. 
We were in bunches of very small numbers. 
Whenever we found any Germans, we handed 
them a hand-grenade and run back to our fel- 
lows. 

[54] 



A CORPORAL 

"We stood at alert — that 's standing with 
your pack on your back ready for action — 
can't go to sleep. I was n't thinkin' much of 
sleep up there any time. That was till day- 
light on the nineteenth. My automatic rifle 
was shot in two. The barrel was shot off while 
I was carryin' the thing, by a piece of high ex- 
plosive. Got a bit rammed into my thumb, 
and another over my eye. By this time we 
had their artillery. American gunners were 
using it on the Dutchmen. Our artillery was 
moved up too." 

"How does our artillery compare with 
theirs?" 

"We can shoot ten to their one. Oh, you 
mean the French ? About the same, only we're 
a little faster. 

"Went down the road towards the first-aid 
station. Heard a shell coming, and I laid 
down on the road. Hit eight feet from me. 
Had a time-fuse on. Buried itself in the 
ground. I felt myself a-going. When I 

[55] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

come to, I was in a wheat field fifty feet from 
the road." 

"How did you feel?" 

"Pretty dizzy. I crawled to where the 
wounded were being evacuated by the aid of 
the Dutch prisoners. Oh, gee, they was all 
shot up! But yet cheerful, wishing they 
had n't 'a' got hurt, so they could have went on 
further. 

"I took my forty-five in my hand and called 
two Dutchmen over to help me. My back and 
legs was sore from hitting the ground. Be- 
fore reaching the aid station we came to a 
valley where we could see gas hanging over 
the grain. We could smell it — like mustard, 
it was — or rather mustard and horse-radish. 
When we got into the gas a ways, it began 
to burn my throat. My mask had three bullet- 
holes through it. I kept it over my eyes, but 
my throat and lungs felt burning and I could 
hardly talk. 

"They kept sending me further and further 
[56] 



A CORPORAL 

back, and finally I came to this base hospital. 
Feeling pretty good through the day. That 
gas seems to take your breath worse at night. 
I went to the garage and got a job. Now I 'm 
riding despatch service on an Indian motor- 
cycle. Expect to return to my company soon 
and thank Fritz for his compliments. I 
have a real lot of love for him. Wanted to 
send me back to the States — but I won't go 
till the other fellows do." 

"There was another time, was n't there? 
You got gassed or something?" 

"Yes — gas. Got that dose in May when 
we was standing to in the trenches. Eyes 
swelled shut and burnt like fire. They wanted 
me to help at the field hospital — tinker around 
digging one thing and another. I beat it — 
you can do more in the trenches." 

"How did you get back?" 

"Ambulance going up the line — got on. 
Found my outfit just as they were fixing to 
go over the top. Put in a hitch of twenty-two 

[57] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

days till we were relieved. 'It 's a great life 
if you don't weaken.' Heavy on that 'weaken' 
part. I would n't give up my experience for 
one thousand dollars — and I wouldn't give 
two cents to go through it again." 



[58] 



CHAPTER VI 

THEY COME 

"Are you a college woman?" 

The night train from Paris had brought me 
to Brest. I was having my breakfast with 
the Y. M. C. A. secretary. 

"Why?" 

"I was wondering if you could do stunts with 
traveling rings?" 

"Yes, I am a college woman," I answered, 
"and I did gym like everybody else, but it was 
a long time ago." 

"It 's not as bad as that," laughed the secre- 
tary. "There 's a transport coming in, and 
I had a hunch that I 'd like to take you out to 
meet it. Put you up in the rigging and have 
you speak to the soldiers. American woman 

[59] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

giving them a glad howdy! Eh what, come 
on!" 

"Great!" I exclaimed. 

We slid down hill in a Ford and were soon 
flying out to the roadstead beyond the fort. 
Our launch reached the Pastoris just after her 
anchor went overboard. Blue-clad sailors 
were shouting, and winding ropes in wet coils. 

"Look at the khaki swarming all over that 
boat," said the secretary. "So many that you 
wonder why a bunch of landlubbers like that 
would n't fall into the water, half of 'em." 

"Oh, look !" said I. "They 're sending down 
a ladder!" 

"Yes, but red tape and paper work will be 
going on, and there won't be a soldier putting 
his foot on dry land to-day. My, soul ! get on 
to the fellows looking at you through opera 
glasses!" 

"Hello, boys!" I cried, when I reached the 
gangway. 

[60] 



THEY COME 

"She's American!" said a soldier, who was 
straddling the bow of a lifeboat. 

The transport gave a mighty cheer. The 
secretary hurried me forward. The boys 
crowded onto the deck, but fell back to make 
way for us. One touched my sleeve. An- 
other wanted to shake hands. On the bridge 
the captain greeted me. 

"First person to board our ship in this for- 
eign land. God bless you!" 

The deck below was solid khaki. Faces all 
turned our way. 

"Now — " said the secretary, "traveling 
rings !" Below a break in the bridge -rail hung 
a rope ladder. "Catch your heels in this 
round. Steady now!" 

"Sing, boys!" I cried, " 'Keep the Home 
Fires Burning.' " 

They did a verse, and the chorus twice. 

I began to speak. 

"When I make a sea voyage and landing day 
[61] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

comes, my mind flies back to the sailing day. 
You have just sung, 'Though your boys are 
far away they dream of home.' You are think- 
ing of the loved ones you left. We cannot 
replace them. But you are not alone in this 
strange land. You have friends. The 
French people have been waiting a long time 
for you. In Paris and everywhere are Ameri- 
cans. Our homes are yours. You won't go 
anywhere without seeing us. And the 
French — " I went on to tell them how France 
had suffered and kept at it against all odds, 
and what the coming of the Americans means 
to the French. 

When it was over, I went aft and repeated 
the greeting to the boys on the deck there. 

I settled myself in a lifeboat to chat and 
hand out cigarettes and chocolate. 

"Our food has n't been so bad," said one 
soldier. "Third day out they started serving 
coffee and sandwiches to the guards." 

"Was it good?" I inquired. 
[62] 



THEY COME 

"Good? You bet! I 'd have given all the 
money I had and half my clothes for a loaf of 
that bread. After that everybody on the ship 
was the guard." 

Another boy wanted cigarettes. 

"Did you get seasick?" I asked. 

"No, ma'am. Occasionally got a little dizzy. 
My first duty on the water was in the crow's- 
nest. Spent my birthday up there. The 
lieutenant with me got seasick, though. 
Could n't sit up. Two sailors had to come and 
tie a rope around him and carry him right 
down." 

A petty officer helped me undo bundles. 

"Americans have changed from tourists into 
crusaders," said I. 

"The one result they may not have thought 
about," responded the Jackie, "is the change 
that is going to come over them. New scenes 
and new experiences ; why, travel is an educa- 
tion." 

"Yes, indeed," I answered; "a year of sol- 
[66] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

diering abroad will be worth a year of school- 
ing to them." 

"I '11 never forget my first cruise," said the 
Jackie. "That was to the Near East." 

"I 've been in Turkey," said I. "We were 
in Mersina during the massacres of 1909. 
Battleships in the harbor — two of them were 
American — used to play their searchlights 
along the sea-wall and it was funny when 
searchlights would focus on a group of Turks. 
They would disperse in terror — thought it was 
the Evil Eye." 

"That beats all!" exclaimed the Jackie. "I 
was the man behind the searchlight on the 
North Carolina!" 

The soldiers were landed in launches, and 
formed in line on the dock. When a couple of 
thousand Americans started up the hill, the 
secretary and I accompanied them in the Ford. 
They had improvised an orchestra to lead off. 
Banjos played "Hail, Hail, the Gang's all 
Here." One soldier, who looked like a pro- 

[64] 



THEY COME 

fessor, was mopping the perspiration off his 
forehead with one hand and with the other was 
holding three books. Comfort bags, made of 
gay-colored cretonne, were strung up to Sam 
Brown belts. A whisk-broom lashed to a pack 
was bobbing along. One youngster had two 
toothbrushes in his hatband. 

We had picked up a boy en route who 
was n't feeling well, and had brought him with 
us in our motor. At the railroad station I 
found the French poste de secours and asked 
the poilus in there to look after their new com- 
rade. They spread his bedding-roll on the 
bench, and he gave them cigarettes. 

A train of cattle-cars was waiting for the 
regiment. 

"Say," said a doughboy, "do you think the 
French sentinel would let me look at his gun?" 

"Surely," I answered; "just go and ask 
him. He '11 be tickled to death to show you." 

I left the two, each chattering away in his 
own tongue, over the way the gun worked. 

[65] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

One soldier, — he was at least six feet, six 
inches tall, — helped me carry a basket of ap- 
ples over to the train. I gave the first apple, 
a rosy-cheeked one, to the officer who was di- 
recting the embarkment. 

"This man is helping me," I said to the offi- 
cer; "is n't he a dear?" 

"Yes," said he, "when Bill gets his growth, 
he will be such a help to his colonel." 

"That officer is the most successful in the 
crowd," said Bill as we moved on to the next 
car, " 'cause he can say a thing like that." 

The engine whistle was blowing. The men 
hurried to find places in the train. 

"Good-by, good-by," I cried. 

"Don't say good-by," said one. "We're 
coming back again. Say 'Good luck !' ' 

From the last car negro soldiers sang back at 
me: 

"Good morning, Mr. Kaiser, Uncle Sammie 's on de 

firin' line, 
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, 

[66] 



THEY COME 

Ef de French mens cain' drive yu de 'Mericans must, 
So good morning, Mr. Kaiser, Uncle Sammie 's on de 

firm', 
Uncle Sammie 's on de firin', Uncle Sammie 's on de 

firin' line 1" 

When the train disappeared, the M. P. at 
the station and I had coffee together at the 
buvette. The M. P. insisted on paying for 
both. 

"How about her?" he said, pointing to the 
pretty French girl who served us. "I give her 
a quarter, 5 ' — he held out his hand full of cop- 
pers, — "and she gives me back a fistful of 
baggage-checks. ' ' 



[67] 



CHAPTER VII 

DECORATION DAY 

In Paris this spring the telephone rang one 
morning. An aviator from Philadelphia, 

A W- , was speaking. I asked him 

to lunch. At noon, when the children heard 
the elevator climbing to our floor, they ran to 
open the door. They fell upon their new 
soldier and dragged him into the drawing- 
room to see mother. When he could get his 
arm free from Lloyd's friendly grasp, he held 
out flowers to me and started to introduce 
himself. But his eye lit on the Steinway. 
Formal greeting stopped right there. His 
overcoat slipped off on the bench as he wriggled 
arms out of the sleeves. He began to play, 
and I could sense the problems of adjustment 
to the new life, longing for home, the thrill of 

[68] 



DECORATION DAY 

the first flight. The children had dropped to 
the floor, where they sat under the spell of the 
new friend's music. Not until he remembered 
letters sent in our care did the aviator come 
down out of the clouds. He excused himself. 
There was no piano in the camp — and that had 
been his whole life before he entered the army. 
He just could not resist. 

A fortnight later, A W followed 

many of his friends who 

Passed like the Archangels, 
Trailing robes of flame. 

The meaning of Decoration Day had be- 
come remote to Americans of my generation. 
But in 1918 it is born anew in us with the ful- 
ness our fathers and mothers experienced, and 
flags and flowers on soldiers' graves are once 
more a poignant and tender duty. 

Decoration Day — until now a strange phrase 
that brought nothing to minds of my children. 
During the past year they have been finding 

[69] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

out vitally what it means to be Americans. 
This lesson had to be added to others. 

An ambulance came for us. When we 
reached the little Brittany village, our soldiers 
were drawn up in marching order before the 
main entrance of the lycee, which is the kernel 
of the great hospital city to be built here. The 
band, imported from a camp fifty kilometers 
away, was taking its place at the head of the 
line. Silver instruments flashed back the sun- 
shine of a day more like crisp October than the 
heat of a May thirtieth at home. The officers 
swung in after the band. Lloyd whispered, 
"My, what a lot of majors!" 

Muffled strains of Chopin's funeral march. 
The procession moved forward — not too rap- 
idly for little feet. 

A meadow has been set aside for the Ameri- 
can cemetery. As we found places near the 
flag-draped platform, I heard the sweet call of 
the cuckoo. Gentle hills and rich farm lands, 
dotted with thatched cottages and windmills, 

[70] 



DECORATION DAY 

stretched to where the horizon meets the ocean. 
Then I saw the rows of white wooden crosses 
newly painted. At the foot of each grave were 
bunches of poppies, flaming symbols of sleep, 
nodding in the soft May breeze as if wafting 
a message of comfort down to the shore of 
the ocean and across the waves to America. 

The older children were looking toward the 
platform, Lloyd with rapt eyes and a little 
hand bravely held to the temple in correct 
salute, Christine placid and expectant. Mimi 
sat on the colonel's overcoat, beside a French 
playmate. Colette decapitated daisies and 
piled them on Mimi's lap. This is America's 
day. 

The speeches began. The French general 
in command of the region told how blue and 
khaki were marching together to battle. The 
Consul-General from the City of the Edict 
read the President's proclamation in French 
and English. The American Protestant chap- 
lain said that he had known these dear boys 

[71] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

beside whose graves we stood. They died as 
they had lived — courageous, steadfast, willing 
to make the sacrifice. The American Catholic 
chaplain, born in France of French parents, 
prayed in the language of his childhood. As 
five hundred years ago, he said, Joan, the 
Maid of France, who should have known only 
peace, followed the vision which led to the 
salvation of France, to-day Young America 
had left the pursuits of peace to save France. 
The mayor's speech was a message to the moth- 
ers of fallen American heroes. The soil of his 
native Brittany would be to these precious 
earthly remains as a mother cradling her chil- 
dren. 

The band played "Nearer, my God, to 
Thee." There surged up in my heart the 
words of the homesick psalmist, "How can we 
sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" 

The nurses broke ranks slowly. They came 
across the grass, their arms filled with butter- 
cups and daisies and wild roses. 



DECORATION DAY 

"Jesus, Lover of my soul." . . . "Lead, 
kindly light." . . . We must sing these songs 
for you, mothers of the soldier boys that have 
died in France. The line of khaki took posi- 
tion beside the graves. I could not see more. 
Taps sounded. The salute was fired. 

This evening I made a blaze of fagots in my 
bedroom chimney. The little folk gathered 
around me to talk over the events of the day 
while they undressed. 

"Was n't it good of them to ask us to come 
to the base hospital to see Decoration Day?" 
observed Christine. 

"Yes," said Lloyd, "and didn't our am- 
bulance go fast?" 

"You and all those nurses did cry, Mama," 
declared Mimi, "but I didn't. I liked the 
band and the soldiers and the daisies." 



[73] 



CHAPTER VIII 

HOW I TRAVEL 

I had been visiting my brother, who's a 
shavetail in the artillery school at Angers. 
Sunday morning I went to the police station 
to get my paper stamped for the return trip. 
I poked it through the arch-shaped hole in the 
chicken-wire grating that fenced off a slice of 
the room. 

"What is this thing?" asked the police offi- 
cer, from his leather-cushioned chair back of 
the chicken-wire. 

"My sauf conduit'' I answered. "I got it 
in my village below Savenay." 

"What village?" 

"Prinquiau." 

"Is that in Loire-Inferieure?" 
[74] 



HOW I TRAVEL 

"Yes." 

He picked up a little book with grubby 
curves for corners, and with a horny thumb- 
nail pushed back the paper till he got to the 
Pr's. 

"Prinquiau," he grunted. "You have a 
permis de sejour, madame?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, it has blanks to be filled in and 
stamped when you want to make a journey." 

"They were all used up with visas and signa- 
tures permitting other journeys," I replied. 
"I travel a lot. Here it is. You can see for 
yourself." 

"Why didn't the maire take sticky paper 
and add an annex sheet?" 

"He told me he had no annex sheets." 

"This sauf conduit isn't worth the paper 
it 's printed on," shouted the policeman, ris- 
ing from his chair and stamping up and down. 

Another officer sitting on another leather- 
backed chair behind an arched hole in the 

[75] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

chicken-wire was reading a newspaper. He 
noticed us. 

"What is the matter, Jacques?" he said. 

Jacques had the sauf conduit in one hand; 
he slapped it with the back of the other. "This 
is no good!" he cried. 

Turning to me, he continued, "This paper 
ought to have had the stamp of our military- 
police and the American police. How did you 
buy your ticket at Savenay?" 

"They do not ask me for papers at Sa- 
venay. They know me there. The paper 's 
no good, of course, if you say so," I agreed 
with him. 

"You 've no right to go back at all!" shouted 
Jacques. "What do you want to go to Sa- 
venay for, any way; tell me that?" 

"I Ve rented a chateau near there for the 
summer," I answered. "My four babies are 
there." 

"Madame has other papers?" asked the sec- 
ond policeman. 

[76] 



HOW I TRAVEL 

I opened my handbag and got out the other 
papers and put them through the hole. 

"Can I go home on any of these?" 

Jacques and the second policeman looked 
them over one by one. 

"This paper is from a committee, you see, 
that represents the army and the navy of 
the United States." I pointed to the letter- 
head. 

"Ah, but your sauf conduit was a mistake," 
cried Jacques, walking up and down again. 
"We don't issue this kind any more. The 
maire of your village ought to have known 
that!" 

"Sure, he ought," I replied. "But, Mon- 
sieur, there are not enough first-class fellows 
like you to handle big places like Angers and 
villages like Prinquiau, too — " 

The second policeman shot me a look. I 
thought his eye twinkled. 

I had my cigarette case in my hand. I had 
taken it out when I got the papers. Opening 

[77] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

it, I slid my arm through the arched hole in 
the chicken-wire. 

"Do these gentlemen smoke?" I asked. 

They helped themselves. I took back my 
cigarette case, crossing it with a box of 
matches. Matches and cigarettes — both lux- 
uries these days and not to be found in An- 
gers. Jacques and the second policeman 
lighted up. "This paper — " began Jacques. 

"Yes, the paper," said I. "How can we 
make it take me home to my babies?" 

Jacques took a long puff at his cigarette, 
cleared his throat, and spat. 

"Madame," said he, "you 're deaf, are n't 
you?" 

"Yes, I'm deaf." 

"And I am blind?" 

"Yes, Monsieur Jacques, you are blind." 

"What we are going to do now," said he, 
"did n't happen." 

"Did n't happen," I agreed. 

"There is no pen on my desk and no ink in 
[78] 



HOW I TRAVEL 

the stand, but Madame will take this paper and 
underneath where it says 'permit to go to An- 
gers/ she will write" (a pause and his pen 
scratched), "the words I have written as a 
model on this paper." 

The words were : "Et retour — and return." 
I wrote them, and handed the sauf conduit 
back to Jacques. He closed his thumb down 
on the two new words and blurred them, nod- 
ding his head approvingly. Then he affixed 
the precious stamp, without which I could not 
have bought my railroad ticket. 



[79] 



CHAPTER IX 

A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR 

I had been dining at the engineers' mess. 
The chief nurse, the chaplain and one of the 
doctors climbed into the motor with me and 
came out to the Little Gray Home for the 
ride. A hospital train arrived yesterday- 
morning, and the day had been twenty-five 
hours long. 

The colonel's chauffeur left small head and 
tail lights burning on the Packard and came 
into the house with the others. We got 
candles, and were about to sit down in the 
drawing-room when the governess beckoned 
to me from the hall. 

"Madame Benoistel's mother sent over for 
you. The baby is coming." 

The doctor hurried over with me to my 
[80] 



A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR 

neighbor's cottage. The chauffeur took the 
others back to the hospital. As we parted 
from them at the gate the doctor told the 
chauffeur to bring out his emergency kit. 

The cottage has two doors. One takes you 
from the road into the bedroom. The Doctor 
had to duck his head to go through the other 
door into the dark kitchen. Grandmother 
shouted to us to come in. She laughed hys- 
terically when I stepped on the cat in the half 
light, then wiped away the tears with a yellow 
plaid handkerchief. She slipped out of her 
wooden sabots, and paddled around in stock- 
ing feet. 

"My slippers, oh, my slippers, Yvonne, 
Yvonne, " she called crossly. Then, smiling 
again, she shook hands with the doctor and me. 
"Oh, dear Madame," she went on, "I am an 
old peasant woman ! I 'm a simple old thing ! 
In French we say, 'Vieille bonne femmef A 
widow these twenty-seven years, killed with 
work on this farm," waving her hands. She 

[81] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

dug into a pasteboard box on the window-sill, 
hurriedly sorting papers. "I did right by my 
children," she went on. "Joseph is my son. I 
made a priest of him. There 's his picture and 
his Croix de Guerre. He is in a hospital at 
Marseilles. He must walk with crutches all 
his life. Ah! Monsieur le Major, this is his 
last letter. You may read it." She passed 
over to monsieur le major a paper ruled in 
little squares and covered with fine writing in 
purple ink. 

"Yvonne, my daughter, Yvonne!" she 
shouted. 

Grandmother was standing again now. 
She lifted the copper kettle off the tripod, 
poured in more water, and put it back. 

"Yvonne is the youngest," she said. "I 
made a midwife of her. It cost me two hun- 
dred and fifty francs a month besides her 
clothes. The hospital gave her food. Ah! 
the misery of being left with children, a widow 
on a farm." 

[82] 



A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR 

From the next room there was heard the 
sound of some one patting a pillow. Grand- 
mother started and listened. "The poor little 
thing," she murmured. The bedroom door 
opened and Yvonne appeared. "Yvonne, my 
daughter, thou must remember that thy mother 
is old and stiff. My slippers, my slippers, 
quick!" 

Yvonne shook hands with us quietly. 
"Mother," she said, "you 've been talking so 
fast you have not yet thanked madame for 
coming, and you should tell monsieur le major 
that we are thankful." She straightened 
Grandmother's white cap. 

"I 'm an old bonne femme that could not 
have the education she gave her children. The 
friends will forgive." 

Yvonne, young and slender, found the slip- 
pers and put them on her mother. She took 
my coat and hat and laid them on one of the 
two high, closely curtained beds that had their 
squat feet set heavily on the black mud floor. 

[83] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"My poor Emilie, I 've always spoiled her. 
She has the best education of all. She is a 
schoolmistress at Nantes. She has never done 
a stroke of work on the farm. I let her get 
away from me to the city. Yvonne is the only 
one that helps me, the only one that can work. 
We have been getting in the hay to-day — 
and now this — " 

"We must take madame and the doctor to 
Emilie now," Yvonne said gently. 

The bedroom was whitewashed. A wooden 
dough-tray, with a coarse linen cloth doubled in 
it, stood on two chairs. On a table were medi- 
cines and baby clothes. Mademoiselle Yvonne 
opened the doors of the black wardrobe. In- 
side were piles of linen. We devoted ourselves 
to Emilie. At midnight grandmother, who 
had been dozing, stirred and went to the 
kitchen. In a few minutes she shouted for 
madame to bring the major, who must be 
hungry. We slipped on to the waxed benches 
on either side of the long table. The copper 

[84] 



A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR 

kettle had been lifted off the tripod. Above 
the level of our heads the overhanging hood of 
the fireplace swallowed into its sooty throat the 
steam from the caldron. The stone platform 
on which the fire lay was wider than I am tall. 
On the tripod, a smaller kettle simmered over 
a sleepy fire. Granny and Yvonne were put- 
ting bowls on the table and pouring steaming 
chocolate into them. 

"Ah! this is good," said Grandmother. 

Over a copper ladle she held the mouth of a 
bottle. "Ask the major," she requested, 
"how much rum he likes in his chocolate." 

"Break it to her gently that American doc- 
tors don't drink rum when they are on a case." 

Grandmother put on her specs and looked 
at me and then at the doctor. "Impossible, 
impossible !" she cried. 

Yvonne saw that we were not joking. 
"Mother, thou must not press them. It is not 
polite." Grandmother was offended. 

"Come, Grand'mere" said I, "I will take a 
[85] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

little to please you if you put away that ladle 
and get a teaspoon." 

Yvonne gave us homespun napkins. Mine 
felt cold and damp on my lap, and I was glad 
to drink the chocolate. Grandmother cut 
slices of bread. She held the loaf under her 
left arm, which was just long enough to reach 
around it. She drew her knife toward her 
through the loaf. We watched her, marvel- 
ing at the steady, accustomed stroke that 
peeled off half a yard of bread in long ellip- 
tical slices. On a plate near the candle was 
butter. It had been pressed down firmly into 
a dish and then turned out, a tempting little 
mountain. Crescent-shaped markings, like 
stripes of calico or chicken tracks in sand, had 
been made across it with the end of a fork. 

"In America, do you have butter and farm- 
houses of stone and maires in the villages and 
stories about the Hebrew children eating 
manna or Joan of Arc leading troops — like 
us?" 

[86] 



A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR 

"Oh, yes," answered the doctor. "And 
windmills and hospitals and railroad trains and 
babies — just like you," he added kindly. 

The doctor has an exclusive practice in 
New York where he mends the digestion of 
wealthy ladies and gifted authoresses. He sat 
polishing his shell-rimmed spectacles with a 
fine linen handkerchief while he diverted 
grandmother by describing New York and 
skyscrapers. I rose to go back to Emilie. 

"Can you beat her face? She doesn't be- 
lieve half I 'm telling her. Is n't she trying 
hard?" 

The doctor's university French and the 
practised patience that comes from long years 
of treating the whims of people who are not ill 
had communicated to grandmother the sense 
of leisure. She folded her arms and sat there, 
satisfied that her Emilie was having the best 
of care. 

The baby, a bonny boy, came at eleven. I 
gave him a bath in the dough-tray. Sympathy 

[87] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

and hope for future reform made me yield to 
agitated relatives. I swaddled him in a mail- 
lot. Granny had been wringing her hands 
and wailing that Emilie was going to die. She 
calmed down now and handed me the chemise, 
brassiere, and lange, one after another. I took 
the baby to his mother to ask his name. For 
a few minutes all she could say was, "How 
ugly he is!" 

"Sell him to me, then," I cried. "Come on 
now. Tell me his name !" 

Emilie pondered. Then she spoke slowly: 
"Georges, because I like it. Yves for his 
father. Helene for you, Madame. What is 
the first name of monsieur le major?" 

"Edmond," said monsieur le major. 

"Edmond," repeated Emilie, "and Marie 
for the blessed Virgin." 

Georges Yves Helene Edmond Marie was 
baptised next day in the Prinquiau church. 
When the curate came to my name he scratched 
his old head. Courtesy would not allow him 

[88] 



A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR 

to bar it out. Helene appears in the Saints' 
Calendar and is therefore a decent name; and 
then, had not the husband of la dame du 
chateau given him fifty francs for the village 
poor? The curate settled it by lopping the 
final "e" off. "Helen," he said, "is the mas- 
culine form." 

Grandmother came over that evening with 
the pink bags of almond candy that French 
people give to their friends on the baptismal 
day, and chickens, two for me and two for 
monsieur le major. 



[89] 



CHAPTER X 

HE LEARNED HIS FRENCH FROM A 
LAUNDRESS 

When I entered the office of the shop where 
motor ambulances are assembled, the sergeant 
and the lieutenant were checking up material. 

"May I see the work here?" I asked. 

"Oh, good!" cried the lieutenant, "and 
come up to the mess to lunch afterward. 
There is just time." 

The sergeant was a master of arts with a 
serious mouth. Back of his glasses was a 
twinkle. 

Said he: "Here 's a pencil and paper. To 
fix this right I 'm going to let you hear what 
the boys really say. Come on." 

He hurried me past the time-clock, where 
[90] 



FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS 

the soldiers stick peg-nails in holes to mark 
themselves In or Out as in a factory back 
home. Knocked-down motor parts lay on the 
floor. Shiny metal tracks made long lines 
the length of the building. There was steady 
hammering everywhere. For the boys obey 
their slogan posted on the wall: "Don't kill 
the Kaiser with your tongue. Use your tools." 
The Sergeant laid his hand on the shoulder of 
a private who had a hammer in one hand and a 
board in the other. 

"This lady is a French journalist. She 's 
come to visit the shop. Got to get busy here 
and give her the right impression.' ' 

I gasped. 

"She wants to know if she can get a box to 
sit down." 

While the box was being found, the sergeant 
asked the boy with the hammer how long he 
had been on the Border. 

"Try your Spanish on her," said he. 

"Can't get away with it," replied the ham- 
[91] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

merer through two or three nails he Had in 
his mouth. Another boy was picking his way 
across to us. 

"I have the character for you now," whis- 
pered the sergeant. "The man coming is 
called Watson — thinks he can speak French, 
and he can't." 

A soldier went by carrying an electric drill. 
Above a sound unpleasantly reminiscent of the 
dentist, the sergeant murmured: "Get down 
his French as fast as you can ;" and in a louder 
voice, as he bowed politely, "Madame — 
monsieur V interpreted 

"Oh, go on, Sergeant. Watcha get me into 
this for!" 

"Go to it, boy," commanded the sergeant. 
"I '11 help you." 

The private gave a deep sigh, and for the 
first time glanced at me. We moved toward 
an ambulance body nearly set up. 

"Moi trayvay, 33 putting his forefinger to his 
eye, "regarder ici. Ce soldat arranger id. 

[92] 



FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS 

Apras fini , . . je regarder, Peut-etre bon, 
peut-etre non bon, Moi inspector. See?" 

Watson tried the door of the little cupboard 
in the ambulance. "Ici emergency — sup- 
plies." (Elaborate gestures to illustrate ban- 
daging.) "Medecin — medicine. Which word 
means the doctor and which is the stuff the doc- 
tor gives you?" The latch on the cupboard did 
not work. He shook his head gravely: then 
beckoned to me to come to the back of the 
ambulance. 

"Austres soldats ici dedans" Putting his 
hand on the leather cushion of the seat, he went 
on: "Bed. Leet pour blesses" 

"Combien de blesses?" I asked. 

"Oh, let's see — Oon, deuce, trey, quatre" he 
answered, telling out the numbers on successive 
fingers. 

He jiggled the tailboard. Something 
seemed to be loose. 

"Ici pas bon, Ici soldats trayvay pas bon 
— couple of screws missing." 

[93] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

We were standing now at the side of the 
ambulance body. My interpreter was open- 
ing a boxlike affair above the front wheel. 

"How the devil do you say trimmings?" 
murmured Watson. "Ici petit, petit — no, no, 
no, — ici marteau, tools. See ? Ici — what 's 
the word for occupants, Sergeant?" 

He gave that up, and moved on to the next 
ambulance body which a soldier was varnishing. 

"Apres fini la-bas, c'est ici pour— paint. 
What 's the word for paint?" he asked himself. 
Turning to me with a beaming smile, he said 
convincingly : "Couleur" 

Private Watson pried open a freshly painted 
green door, and explained, while he wiped the 
paint off his penknife: "Pour ventilation. 
Troy petit portes — von, oon } oon. Americans 
beaucoup fresh air." He inhaled and exhaled 
with vigor so I should not miss the lesson. 
"Here heat — " pointing to a little grating. 
Then recollecting — "pour chaud. Peut-etre 
froid at the front." 

[94] 



FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS 

I was examining a tin drum-like affair un- 
der the front seat. 

" Un reservoir pour de VeauV I asked. 

"Qui, oui. Tell her the big one above is for 
gasoline, Sergeant. She '11 think it 's for 
water, too." 

Watson walked swiftly ahead of us, glancing 
at ambulance after ambulance as he went. 

"Sergeant, you are a rascal!" said I. "Are 
you sure these boys don't know me? I lec- 
tured a while ago at the Y. M. C. A. hut, you 
remember." 

"Fixed that, too, Mrs. Gibbons. Oh, Lord 
this is real stuff. Only one man in the shop 
has seen you before, and he promised to keep 
his mouth shut. Fire some more questions at 
him—" 

The Sergeant covered his face with his hand- 
kerchief and his giggles with a thorough nose- 
blow, as Watson plucked my coat-sleeve gen- 
tly and pointed to a finished ambulance at the 
end of the line. 

[95] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Here Croix Rouge et U. S. medical in- 
signia. Dernier e chose. Ambulance fini. fini 
maintenant. Say, Sergeant, tell her these am- 
bulances are for wounded, but they are also the 
wagons that take you out and don't bring you 
back. You stay there by request. Tell her 
we work like the devil in this shop. If any 
man slows down, we ask him if he is working 
for Uncle Sam or the Kaiser." 

"Combien de temps faut-il pour faire une 
ambulance, Monsieur Watson?" I demanded. 
"C'est a dire, une fois les pneus bien places et 
la peinture terminee, je comprends que — " 

"Don't get you. Gosh!" cried my inter- 
preter, with startled eyes. 

"It 's all right, Watson," said the sergeant. 
"She wants the real dope on our output. One 
ambulance every four hours — um, um, more 
than that." 

Then followed a discussion between the pri- 
vate and the sergeant which revealed to me 

[96] 



FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS 

much about the spirit of the outfit and the 
quantity of work produced. 

"Be sure she gets that dope straight," called 
a soldier as he ducked behind an ambulance. 
He was laughing. 

The sergeant shoo'd the private and me 
quickly into a little room, where Watson said: 
"Ici peinture — you said that was the word for 
paint, Sergeant?" 

For answer he patted Watson on the back 
and said: "Look here, boy, we have been put- 
ting over a dirty trick on you. This lady is 
not a French journalist. She is Mrs. Gibbons, 
the mother of the Little Gray Home in 
France." 

Watson's blue eyes gave me a long look. 
With his right fist he pushed his campaign hat 
away back on his head, and groaned. 

"It 's a shame," said I, "to have treated you 
like this." I slipped my cigarette-case out of 
my pocket, and asked, "Will you show me you 

[97] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

forgive me by smoking one of my cigarettes?" 
Watson took the cigarette and burst out 
laughing. "Gee, I 'm a donkey," he cried; 
"that sure is a good one on me!" 

"I suppose you are thinking about the guy- 
ing you will get," I said. "But listen to me. 
I have the answer for you. I '11 tell you right 
now the impression I should have got, had I 
really been a French journalist. If what I say 
tallies with the truth, that 's all you '11 need. 
You know I 've never been in this shop before 
to-day." 

As I talked, the private smiled more and 
more, and when I finished, his pleased comment 
was. "To think I got away with that, and I 
learned my French from a laundress." 



[98] 



CHAPTER XI 



OUR CRUSADERS ON "THE FOURTH" I 
ALSACE 



A child climbed on my bed. Half awake, 
I thought I was at home. "Lloyd wants to 
get warmed up," I said to myself, and made 
room beside me. But no bare legs and arms 
cuddled to me. I opened my eyes. 

Perched up on the eiderdown was a wee girl 
with china-blue eyes. A halo of spun gold 
hair was topped with drooping bows of wide 
black ribbon. A white bodice peeped through 
the lacings of a velvet girdle that held in place 
a saucy petticoat of Yale blue. Her white- 
stockinged legs were crossed. One hand 
toyed with a silver buckle on her slipper. In 
the other she held a red, white and blue bouquet 
tied with Stars-and- Stripes ribbon. The lit- 

[99] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

tie fairy kissed me. Thrusting the flowers into 
my hands, she cried, 

"For America to-day!" 

"You blessed child! America thanks you! 
You look like a Guy Arnoux poster. The 
window makes your frame." 

"I made a circle around 'four' with my red 
crayon," she continued, "for independence. 
Mother wants me to ask if you like coffee in 
your room or with us downstairs. How long 
are you going to stay?" 

"As long as I can, Bunny, but it will never 
be long enough to see Alsace." 

"Have you any children?" 

"A son and three little girls, some bigger 
than you and some smaller. They go to the 
Ecole Alsacienne in Paris." 

"Do they sing 'Un Matin du Printemps 
Dernier'?" 

"Indeed they do," I answered. "My babies 
are alarm clocks, I get up early. I must see 
if your sisters look as sweet as you do." 
[100] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

I hugged her, a lovely armful, and jumped 
out of bed. She perched among the pillows 
and watched me dress. 

"Sing 'Un Matin du Printemps' for me. I 
will tell my children you did it." 

She sprang to the floor, clasped dimpled 
hands, and swaying a little to mark time, she 
sang, 

Un matin du printemps dernier, 
Dans une bourgade lointaine 
Un petit oiseau printanier 
Vint monter son aile d'ebene. 
Un enfant aux jolis yeux bleus 
Apercut la brune hirondelle, 
Et connaissant l'oiseau fidele, 
Le salua d'un air joyeux 

Les coeurs palpitaient d'esperance 
Et l'enfant disait au soldat: 
Sentinelle, ne tirez pas ! 
Sentinelle, ne tirez pas ! 
C'est un oiseau qui vient de France. 

"The American soldiers will let all our bird- 
ies dare to sing in French," she said gravely, 
[101] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

when she had finished. "They give me red and 
white mint sticks, and I like them." 

At the breakfast table with Madame Lauth 
and her daughters was a Strasbourg business 
man. "I suppose," said I, "you are looking 
forward eagerly to the happy day." 

"I go in with the French and American 
troops," he answered promptly. 

The man from Strasbourg took out his wal- 
let, and hunted for a photograph. "This is all 
I have from home in four years," he said. "It 
was taken from an aeroplane by my nephew. 
Look, you can see my house and factory 
plainly. They are intact. But I wouldn't 
mind having them destroyed, if that is neces- 
sary in order to secure the liberation of my 
country. All our lives long we have lived in 
slavery and humiliation. Were you ever in 
Alsace under the German occupation?" 

"Only as a tourist," I answered. 

"Ah, then, you did not see, you could not 
understand! Think of me, an Alsatian, who 
[102] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

had to wear the German helmet as a young 
man. All the men of my generation, who 
could not leave Alsace, had to submit to the 
badge of slavery. France was not powerful 
enough alone to rescue us. This war has been 
a fearful calamity. But, Madame, can you 
realize what it means to me to see the Ameri- 
can soldiers in Alsace? We have waited 
nearly half a century for the world — the civi- 
lized world — to come to our aid." 

"To tourists it looked like prosperity and 
contentment in Alsace," said Madame Lauth. 
"They had no way of knowing. Our men had 
to do business with the Germans. Most of 
our boys were forced to serve in the German 
army. But we women kept alive the love for 
France in our homes. We were more fortu- 
nate than the men in that we did not have to 
come into contact with the invaders. And 
we suffered in silence. I was born under the 
German yoke, but what I learned from my 
mother I passed on to my three girls. During 
[103] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

my lifetime no German has ever got farther in 
this house than the vestibule. And my three 
girls do not know a word of German. From 
the time I first began to receive ideas, it was 
impressed upon me by my mother that we 
Alsatians were a subject race, looking for de- 
liverance, and hating the Germans. I have 
never spoken to a German except in a shop or 
in a government or railway position. I have 
never given my hand to one. I have never 
touched the garments of one if I could help it. 
When my children came into the world, I 
taught them what I had learned from my 
mother. Acceptance of our fate? No. Re- 
conciliation with the conquerors? No and no 
and no I" 

Little Suzanne came in from the drawing- 
room, where she had been watching from the 
window what was happening on the square. 

"An American band beside the platform. 
They are tuning up. Hear them?" she cried. 

We left the table to see the preparation for 
[104] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

the fete. Crowds were pouring into the square 
of Masevaux from every street. Women in 
mourning led other Alsatian dolls like Su- 
zanne. Poilus and "Sammies" were mingled 
with them. Almost every American had a boy 
by the hand. French soldiers were finishing 
the task of tacking bunting on the platform 
that had been erected under the trees at one 
side of the square. 

We hurried out of doors. The lieutenant 
who had brought me from Belfort was wait- 
ing to greet me. "Come to your place on the 
platform," he said, "before the crowd gets too 
big. I do not need to ask if you were comfort- 
able at the Lauths'. Your husband has been 
their guest more than once, and I knew you 
would want to be with them. And you have 
three little girls yourself." 

The platform and steps were carpeted. The 
front row was of red velvet chairs, with im- 
mense fauteuils in the middle for the French 
and American generals. "You are to sit on 
[105] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

the second row," said the lieutenant, "with the 
Siamese general and his two aides-de-camp. 
They speak French." 

Three thin little gentlemen, as yellow as their 
uniforms, were presented to me. They saluted 
gravely, bowed low over their swords, and 
smiled. With us were seated the lawyer from 
Paris, the American professor, the French pro- 
fessor (an Alsatian refugee), the American 
woman journalist, the American Red Cross 
representative, American army officers and 
Y. M. C. A. men, French officers, and local 
personages in dress-suits, holding tall silk hats 
in their hands. When the American band 
struck up "I want to go back to Michigan," 
the quadruple ring of Alsatian girls around 
the fountain rose and clapped their hands and 
cheered. After the last flourish of the band 
leader's stick, they broke the bouquets in their 
hands and threw the flowers on the band. 
Then appeared the French and American regi- 
ments, and the girls must have regretted that 
[106] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

they had been so prodigal. The troops 
marched past the stand, and drew up on two 
sides of the square. Sentimental old thing 
that I am, I had in my sleeve the little Ameri- 
can flag which I have carried through four 
wars. When the speeches were over, and the 
band played "The Star-Spangled Banner," 
I took it out to wave, and added another pre- 
cious memory. America had come to aid 
France to recover her Lost Provinces. 

After the "Marseillaise" and the marching 
off of the soldiers, I rejoined my hostess on 
the steps of her home. There were tears in 
her eyes, and she grasped my hand. "It is as 
it should be that France and America have the 
same colors. I have always dreamed of the 
French flag in Masevaux — how it would look 
in this square. It has been here for three 
years now, and I knew that if it had to leave 
once more, this time all Masevaux would go 
with it. I never doubted the victory of the 
Allies, but the lack of definite assurance to 
[107] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

Alsace-Lorraine, that they would support the 
claims of France at the Peace Conference — 
ah! that has worried us. We had no certainty 
until we saw the American soldiers arrive in 
Alsace. Madame Gibbons, there is black in- 
stead of blue in the German flag. Changing 
that black stripe, getting rid of the darkness 
— you understand?" 

After the celebration on the square, a Te 
Deum in commemoration of American inde- 
pendence was sung at the church. The organ 
of Masevaux is one of the treasures of Al- 
sace. It was playing as we entered and 
slipped into places in the dim light among the 
kneeling French and American soldiers. The 
cure made a short address, assuring the Ameri- 
cans that they had come to Alsace as crusaders 
to fight for the same cause that first had 
brought French and Americans together as 
comrades in arms a hundred and forty years 
ago. 

Gray army motors, with poilu chauffeurs, 
[108] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

were drawn up outside of the church, waiting 
for us. We were to lunch at Wesserling, but 
were to go by different roads so that Alsatian 
villagers and American soldiers could receive 
Independence Day greetings at all the smaller 
places en route. I was handed out of the 
car several times, and presented to quickly 
gathered groups of peasants and doughboys 
to whom I spoke in French and English. I 
shook hands with the Alsatians and Ameri- 
cans, and admired and kissed the babies. Oh! 
if everywhere in France they had families of 
the size of those the Alsatians consider as the 
ordinary thing! Children of all ages and 
everywhere make soldiering delightful for our 
boys in Alsace, who are never seen off duty 
without their favorite youngsters around them. 
At Wesserling, after lunch, we went 
through the linen factories which have worked 
without interruption under the German bom- 
bardments ever since the French occupation 
of the valley of the Thur. Then there was a 
[109] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

short and solemn reception at the mairie, where 
we shook hands with the veterans of 1870 
and admired the flags they had kept hidden 
during forty-four years of German occupa- 
tion. Champagne, in tall, thin glasses, was 
served after the speeches. There is always 
champagne at official French receptions— 
but always after the speeches. If only they 
would start with the drinks, one would appre- 
ciate the speeches more. In the Y. M. C. A. 
hut, school children sang the "Star Spangled 
Banner" in lisping French, led by a bald- 
headed, nervous little abbe who beat time furi- 
ously with a horny hand. The clergy of this 
country do their full share of manual labor in 
the villages. American and French comedians 
did alternate stunts on the stage. An Ameri- 
can soldier sketched lightning-change portraits 
of the Kaiser, Hindenburg, the Clown-Prince, 
and other notorious characters, with charcoal 
on white sheets of paper tacked to a black- 
board. He then shifted to more popular sub- 
[HO] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

jects, ending in a crescendo with Wilson and 
Clemenceau — Wilson spectacled and stern, 
Clemenceau with the familiar slouch felt hat, 
and wearing his ff Je fats la guerre" expression. 
A Frenchman in civilian clothes swallowed 
twelve needles, and pulled them slowly out of 
his mouth each neatly threaded. Later, as 
I was leaving the hut, he met me at the door 
dressed in poilu horizon-blue, and filled my 
arms with flowers shaken from his sleeves. 

We were fifteen at dinner. The command- 
ant called on me for a speech. I had to get 
to my feet. It was no time for anything sen- 
timental or high-sounding, and I could not 
have filled the bill anyway. The key-note of 
a festival dinner should always be fun, and we 
were still under the spell of the Y. M. C. A. 
stunts. On purpose I hesitated and fumbled 
for words. I spoke slowly to heighten the im- 
pression of being ill at ease. I could see that 
the commandant was bothered, and sorry for 
me, sorry that he had asked me to speak. 
[Ill] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"I want to talk about our enemy," I said, 
"and French pronunciation is beyond me. I 
do not know whether I ought to say les alle- 
mands, without pronouncing the s, or lezzz- 
allemands" 

The commandant jerked in his chair. 
"Lezzzz-allemands," he said tolerantly. 

Then I flashed on him. "Ah, Monsieur le 
Commandant, pardon, vous avez bien tort. 
II n'y a plus de liaison avec ces gens-la!" 
("Major, excuse me, you are wrong. We no 
longer have any liaison with those people!") 

The commandant hunched down in his chair, 
hung his head, and whispered solemnly, "A 
trap ! She laid a trap, and I fell into it!" 

One of my particular boys was at the din- 
ner, a young captain in the American Intel- 
ligence Section. He had brought a car from 
Chaumont, and offered to take me back to 
Masevaux. So we slipped away, and had a 
glorious ride over the hills, skirting Thann, 
which was being bombarded, and following the 
[112] 



OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE 

new road on the Alsatian side of the Vosges, 
built by the French engineers and named after 
Marshal Joffre. We passed camp after camp 
of Americans, and saw our boys going down 
for guard-duty in the front line trenches. At 
one place we could see the long, silent line go 
through a field and disappear into the boyau. 
The moon was up, but they were protected 
from the enemy by a clump of trees, and one of 
our balloons watched overhead. Shells were 
exploding in Old Thann, and an occasional 
flare would light up the ruined houses and fac- 
tories under the shoulder of the hill that rose 
to Hartmannswillerkopf, 

"Just think, Sanford," I sighed. "Last 
year and all the years before the 'Fourth , 
meant firecrackers to those boys, and now it is 
this. Listen to the rat-tat-tat of the machine- 
guns." 

"But next year it will be firecrackers again, 
and all the 'Fourths' after that!" said my 
young captain, emphatically. 
[113] 



CHAPTER XII 

TOMMY AND SAMMY 

Early in July the silver lining of the cloud 
which hung heavily over France at the end of 
the fourth year of the war was the magic ap- 
pearance of the American army everywhere 
along the battle-line from Switzerland to the 
North Sea. Everywhere — and I had the op- 
portunity to realize the meaning of the figures 
that had just been published in Secretary 
Baker's letter to President Wilson. I spent 
the "Fourth" with our boys in reconquered Al- 
sace, and then passed two days in trains along 
railway lines encumbered with troops and ma- 
teriel going from Belfort to Boulogne. At 
places, my train made long and tiresome de- 
tours in order to avoid the points still under the 
cannon of the invader. But we were still near 
[114] 



TOMMY AND SAMMY 

enough to hear the thunder of the battle. 
Faces were strained. The forward push of 
the Germans was not yet stopped. They were 
on the Marne and preparing to cross. They 
threatened Amiens. If there was confidence 
and reasonable hope, it was because nowhere 
could you stick your head out of the window 
without seeing American uniforms. 

Was a French or British front-line division 
depleted ? American battalions and regiments 
were thrown in. Were the reserves at any 
point giving Marshal Foch anxiety? He had 
carte blanche to bring up the new divisions 
from across the sea as fast as they landed. 
Was it necessary to withdraw the Portuguese ? 
Plenty of Americans to take their place. Did 
the Italians near Rheims ask for reinforce- 
ments? Uncle Sam could give all the help 
they wanted. I don't know anything about 
military affairs. But I haven't been out of 
France one single day since August 1, 1914, 
and I do know how the French have felt all 
[115] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

through these terrible years. Never was the 
situation more critical than when the Ameri- 
can Expeditionary Forces grew almost over 
night, in so far as the public was aware of its 
size, from thousands to a million. 

Could we swing the deal? Blind faith had 
always made me say, "Yes!" But after I had 
ridden from Belfort to Boulogne, and had 
watched Maine and Mississippi, Maryland and 
Minnesota, Massachusetts and Michigan — and 
all our States which do not begin with "M" — 
going up to the front, I could just see the Ger- 
man lines (which we had come here in France 
to consider impregnable) bending back and 
cracking. 

So I was prepared to make my first public 
speech in French to the people of Boulogne- 
sur-Mer, and tell them that it wouldn't be 
long until they could bring up from their cel- 
lars the lamps and chairs put there for the 
nights of raids, and not worry about the thick- 
ness of the curtains on their windows. 
[116] 



TOMMY AND SAMMY 

The week away from the Little Gray Home 
would not have been complete without a 
glimpse of our boys with the British. There 
were Americans in Boulogne, as everywhere 
else, but I wanted to get out to see them in 
the field. Tommy alone and Tommy with the 
French and Colonials was a familiar sight, but 
Tommy shoulder to shoulder with Sammy — 
well, it would take seeing to efface the inborn 
prejudice nourished by the unconscious jingo- 
ism of the history we learned at school. 

My husband joined me at Boulogne. He 
had a personal pass "good to all American 
camps by train or auto." A French friend had 
an auto and a pass for himself and his chauf- 
feur. I just went along. I knew I could 
smile properly at the French gendarmes. 
British military police were a harder nut to 
crack, but if I tried for a British pass I knew 
I would be turned down. 

We left Boulogne early in the morning, and 
where we went I shall not say. For, precisely 
[117] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

because I had no trouble, I do not want to 
make trouble for any one else. The second 
week of July was a good week for Americans 
on the British front. Our troops were being 
hurried into Flanders and Belgium, and they 
were so ubiquitous that an "American camp" 
meant anywhere, and so welcome that no M. 
P. was disposed to be ungracious to an Ameri- 
can woman. 

A favorite topic of conversation in the Little 
Gray Home was what name our boys in France 
wanted to go by. Memories are still vivid to 
some Southerners, and "Yanks" mean Sher- 
man marching to the sea. Even with the 
Northerners and Westerners and Americans of 
the post-Civil War vintage, there is a preju- 
dice against "Yanks." From the first days of 
the A. E. F., "Sammy" had not been kindly 
received. There is as much difficulty in de- 
ciding upon a nickname for us as upon a name. 
We have no name distinctly our own property. 
There are countless other Americans, and 
[118] 



TOMMY AND SAMMY 

Brazil is also a United States in America! On 
the British front, however, Sammy is the nat- 
ural corollary of Tommy. Sammy we are to 
Tommy, and that settles it. 

If there is no more to this chapter, put it 
down to the fact that a panic about the censor- 
ship has suddenly struck me. I cannot write 
about the British front without dealing with 
the British censorship. And I had no right 
to be up there anywav 



[119] 



CHAPTER XIII 

HOMESICKNESS 

The early morning train pulled out from 
the Paris station. I was going back to the 
Little Gray Home after a visit to the front. 
The morning was chilly, and a hurried bite be- 
fore six o'clock was not enough. I was hungry 
again by eight. My thermos bottle was filled 
with cafe-au-lait, and held a good deal. 
When I had all I wanted, I reflected that it 
was a pity somebody could n't enjoy the rest 
of my coffee. I went exploring along the cor- 
ridor. In the next compartment were six sol- 
diers. I poked my head in the door, 

"Time for breakfast." 

"That's just what we're thinking," an- 
swered one of the men. "But the diner won't 
[120] 



HOMESICKNESS 

be put on until eleven o'clock. We 're out of 
luck." 

"No, you 're not out of luck," said I. 
"Wait a minute." 

Soon the soldiers were breakfasting. I no- 
ticed that one of them had got up to make room 
for me and was standing in the corridor. 

"Will you have a cup?" I called to him. 

"No, thank you." 

"Who is he?" I inquired. 

"Some guy who seems to have a grouch," 
said one of the soldiers. "We found him in 
the compartment here. He 's not with us." 

I went back to my place, and settled down 
to reading. 

When I went into the diner at noon-time, 
the number on my ticket indicated a place at 
a small table for two. The table was a let- 
down shelf, so that my companion, whoever 
he might be, would sit beside me, both of us 
facing the wall dividing the dining-room from 
the kitchen. 

[121] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

It was the "guy with the grouch" who came 
to sit by me. We tackled hors-d'oeuvres, rad- 
ishes, and vegetable salad with a scant layer of 
mayonnaise dressing on top, the same hors- 
oVoeuvre they serve in restaurant cars from end 
to end of France. 

The officer kept quiet. So did I. He or- 
dered butter and had difficulty making the 
waitress understand. I interpreted. He 
shared his butter with me. After that we 
talked. 

"Are you on leave?" I asked. 

"No," he replied. "I 've been here eleven 
months without leave." 

"It seems to me too bad that our system slips 
up occasionally, and men who need rest don't 
get it." 

"I could not let up," said the officer. "If I 
did I 'd lose my grip. I inspect camps and be- 
fore I finish one assignment I apply for an- 
other on purpose to keep going. Work till I 
[122] 



HOMESICKNESS 

drop into my bed at night more dead than 
alive." 

He spoke hurriedly in a low voice, without 
looking at me. 

"But you must not keep that up," I ob- 
jected. "I 've seen other men in the army 
overwork. My own husband does it, and if 
I didn't interrupt him he would never stop. 
What 5 s the matter?" 

The man had his head turned clear away 
from me now. 

"Nobody to interrupt me." The words 
seemed to come from the window-pane and 
were more like an echo than a voice. 

The officer suddenly turned half around in 
his chair and faced me. 

"I 'm going to tell you about it. When I 
enlisted, I was engaged to be married. I was 
sent to a Southern camp, at a port, before I had 
a chance to say good-by. I wired her to go to 
New York. A sickening rumor made me fear 
[123] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

for days that we would sail from where we were 
and not from New York at all. For a week I 
was in suspense. It was hell. Then came or- 
ders to move, we knew not where. My con- 
solation was that they loaded us on trains 
and not on a ship. Oh, the days and nights 
of travel without knowing our destina- 
tion! Then, thank God, we arrived in New 
York." 

"Was she there?" 

"Yes, waiting for me." 

"Were you married?" 

"Yes," he answered. "I left a bride of four 
days." 

The head waiter came along and made out 
our checks and put them beside the plates. 
My left elbow was resting on the table. I 
slipped my right hand under and took the offi- 
cer's check. 

"Are you a millionaire?" I asked. 

"No, indeed." 

"It wouldn't matter if you were," said I. 
[124] 



HOMESICKNESS 

"I 'm going to pay for your lunch. Then you 
will have been my boy for an hour/' 

The officer leaned forward and put his head 
in his hands. When he looked up again, there 
were tears in his eyes. 

"You 're the only person in France that I 've 
told, and I won't forget you." 

There was a crowd at the Savenay station, 
and by the time I could get through the exit 
all the ambulances were away. A Knight of 
Columbus whom I had never seen before no- 
ticed my plight. He took me to the Little 
Gray Home in his car, and stayed to dinner. 
When we got to dessert he rose. 

"I must hurry on," he said. 

"I 'm afraid I 've delayed you." 

"Not a bit of it," said he. "But I must 
reach St. Nazaire before it gets too dark." 

"Don't go without writing your name in my 
visitors' book." 

As he finished writing his wife's address on 
the line beneath his own, he said, "I 'm going 
[125] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

to ask you to do something for me. Come." 

He led the way back to the dining-room. 
"Sit down," said he. "I 've been away from 
my wife for one year." He shook hands with 
me. "There is a word," he went on, "that 
I Ve not heard in all that time. You sit still, 
and I will go out through the dining-room 
door into the garden. You will call after me, 
'Good-by, dear.' He walked slowly out, then 
turned and looked back. 

"Say it!" 

"Good-by, dear," I called. 

The man turned and bolted. I never saw 
him again. 



[126] 



CHAPTER XIV 

SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD 

An American soldier passed me in the cor- 
ridor of the train from Brest. He turned and 
looked, hesitated, and came back. Saluting, 
he inquired, "Say, ain't you an American 
woman?" 

"Yes, indeed." 

"Have some Wrigley's!" Drawing the 
chewing-gum from his pocket and cracking 
the shiny pink paper with his thumb nail, he 
went on, "Where do you belong?" 

"Well, I 've had half a dozen homes in Eu- 
rope since I was married, but I am originally 
from Philadelphia." 

"Some traveler — I 've been going some 
myself since I joined this man's army. I am 
a real-estate agent from California, but here 
[127] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

what do you suppose I am? A baker. Sta- 
tioned at Dijon. If you come down there I '11 
give you some white bread." 

"My, that will be a treat. I '11 remember 
when I go down there for the Y. M. C. A." 

I kept the card of the boy who gave me the 
Wrigley's. On my last evening in Dijon a 
muddy "Lizzie" pushed me to the outskirts 
of the town, bumped bravely alongside rail- 
road tracks, and stopped beside open freight 
cars. I thought something had happened to 
"Lizzie's" legs, till, through the darkness, I 
made out German prisoners. Bossed by boys 
in khaki, they were carrying wood. Such 
quantities of fuel could be needed only by a 
bakery. 

A soldier shoved a long flat log into the wet- 
test part of the space between me and the hut. 
In a corner of the hut a pile of sweepings was 
half hidden by the business end of a wide 
American broom. The secretary said I was 
the first woman to come out to the bakery camp 
[128] 



SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD 

in months, and cleaning had to be done before 
I got there. In fact, I was the second "show" 
since this camp was made ! The boys are find- 
ing out what work means. Every hour in 
an army bakery, they say, is seventy minutes 
long. 

The Y man took me to the canteen counter 
where I faced men elbowing their way toward 
cigarettes and chocolate. The sign, the back 
of a pasteboard box-lid nailed against the 
woodwork, read: "Female concert." The 
words had been written with the other end of a 
penholder dipped unhesitatingly into an ink- 
pot. 

The secretary lifted a section of the counter 
and walked through. Opposite the canteen 
end of the hut was the platform. I walked 
down the aisle. Men that had been around 
the counter followed me and crowded into 
the front row chairs. 

I faced a mixed bunch, all of them tired. 
They were like Lloyd when he comes home 
[129] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

from school at noon and sees the lunch on the 
table. He won't eat, no ; not he — lunch ought 
to have been there before ! The bakers would 
be damned if anybody could entertain them 
— I ought to have come long ago. Homesick, 
hungry eyes looking my way — I felt their an- 
tagonism. Something had to be done. There 
was an army camp-stool beside the table on 
the platform. I sat down, opened my blue 
silk beaded bag, and took out a wee mirror and 
a powder-box with a pink ribbon rose on its 
top. Leaning over the mirror on the table, I 
powdered my nose. I took my time, too. 
When the handkerchief had dabbed off extra 
powder, I looked again into the faces before 
me. I confess I smiled hopefully, although 
down deep I wondered. Applause and more 
applause. Laughter. Some one shouted, 
"Do that again!" 

Pent-up feelings had spilled over. The 
boys were now ready to listen. I had them 
with me while I talked of certain qualities of 
[130] 



SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD 

French character. I did not dare let long- 
windedness break the spell. Half an hour was 
enough. 

While Anne was getting the first song 
started, I went to the back of the hut. Men 
were sitting on writing-tables. I asked if 
there were room for me. The man I spoke to 
was an Italian. He jumped down and moved 
away in the crowd. I called him back and 
made a place for him beside me. I had heard 
rightly. His was the tenor voice I was trying 
to locate. I persuaded the Italian to come 
with me to the platform. There he sang us a 
solo, "Darling I-yam Growing Old." 

After the show was finished, the sergeant 
who had given me the stick of Wrigley's took 
me to see bread made. On the way over he 
said, "I wish, Mrs. Gibbons, you could tell the 
Entertainers' Bureau at the Y. M. C. A. 
headquarters that they ought to tip off any- 
body going to a bakery. I was detailed to 
Nevers for a while. Singers and others com- 
[131] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

ing to the bakery there used to make the same 
mistake you did to-night. You think all the 
men around a bakery knead bread. 'Tisn't 
true. Detachments of infantry are here do- 
ing guard." 

"I see," said I. "I never thought of that." 

"Yes," he went on, "we have a wagon com- 
pany, and a big bunch of chauffeurs with the 
motor-trucks. Making bread is a compli- 
cated affair." 

"I never dreamed it took so many kinds of 
people for an army bakery." 

"We are used to that idea," he laughed. 
"Besides bakers by trade, we have timber- 
men from the West, lawyers, traveling sales- 
men, a brakeman on the New York, New 
Haven and Hartford Railway. My buddy is 
a tinsmith. When he finds you are from the 
Quaker City, he will want to shake hands with 
you. He worked on the grain elevator at 
North Philadelphia." 

"Don't you get a certain amount of satis- 
[132] 



SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD 

faction doing something so constructive as 
making bread?" I asked. 

"You bet you! Beside us are men whose 
whole energy is put into destruction — muni- 
tions, see? — and here we are fighting to give 
men the staff of life." 

We were entering a building now. A can- 
dle was stuck in some dough on a board. I 
made out giant dough-trays. They were the 
shape of the one my grandmother used to have 
on her farm in Pennsylvania. Sloping sides, 
as the bottom was smaller than the top. They 
were set around the outside walls and down 
the center of the building. Frames made of 
iron uprights, with woven wire sides and 
shelves, hold the bread that is put to rise. The 
frames had canvas curtains, adjusted accord- 
ing to the temperature. The men were 
dressed in white trousers and short-sleeved un- 
dershirts. Most of them had their heads cov- 
ered with white caps made from XXX Minne- 
apolis flour bags. 

[133] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"I used to make caps like the one you have 
on when I lived in Constantinople," I observed 
to a boy who was bending over a dough-tray. 

"Who for?" he demanded. 

"Turkish soldiers. Their religion won't let 
them go bareheaded, and when they get into 
our Red Cross hospital we would n't let them 
wear their dirty f ezzes. You are the real thing 
in a doughboy, aren't you?" 

"You bet we're doughboys!" he laughed. 
"Look at this wad I 've got — it weighs a hun- 
dred pounds." 

Others were working small wads into loaves. 
If your back was turned, you could tell the 
loafmakers by the snappy sound dough makes 
when it is kneaded enough. 

"See, Mrs. Gibbons, we make two kinds of 
loaf — garrison and field. The crust has to be 
harder and denser in the field bread. That 
means longer baking and it does n't get stale so 



soon." 



[134] 



SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD 

"Breathing so much flour all the time — 
does n't that hurt men!" 

"It is bad. It gives them asthma and even 
consumption." 

"Why don't you wear gas masks?" I asked. 

At a tray near by a boy straightened up and 
said: "I was sent to a French army bakery 
when I first came over to learn their ways. 
The French have flour masks in some bakeries. 
They have worked out a way of breathing by 
blowing with the mouth toward the side and 
taking in air with the nose. Like breathing 
exercises. Pretty good, protects the eyes. 
Our fellows have n't the patience to do it." 

It was possible to talk to the breadbakers 
because the different squads try to keep to- 
gether in the various processes. Sometimes 
one bunch has to wait for another to catch up. 
This is in order to make the production uni- 
form in amount. 

"Were you boys here last Christmas?" 
[135] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Yes," answered the sergeant. 

"What kind of a time did you have?" 

"Not bad," sang out one. "Some society- 
sent sixty comfort bags. There are over three 
hundred of us. We made as many cards as 
there were men — then drew. Some got a 
blank, some didn't. Everybody had some- 
thing. There 's lots of things in a comfort bag, 
and the guys that drew a card marked 'Pres- 
ent' opened up and passed round knives and 
pipes and toilet articles." 

With my hands full of dough from good-by 
handshakes, I stepped out into the night to 
brighter light than there had been inside. 
Paralleling the building was a row of outdoor 
ovens. 

"Why are the ovens not closer to the build- 
ing, sergeant?" I asked. "I should think they 
could be equipped in some way so their heat 
could be utilized for raising the bread." 

"It is a queer thing," said the sergeant. 
"This is a system worked out by a master baker 
[136] 



SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD 

at home. Guess he is a major now. He got 
better results from using two sets of stoves: 
those cone stoves you saw back in the build- 
ing that look like tiny wigwams for raising 
the bread — and then the baking-ovens out-of- 
doors." 

At the end of the line of ovens, when I could 
tear myself away from the fascination of the 
glowing trench that ran back of them, I heard 
a voice from a tent : 

"Did I hear you coughing, Mrs. Gibbons? 
Just come in here, please." 

It was the bakers' doctor, eager to show me 
his medicines and a fine new table that made his 
tent look like an office. 

"I have mostly burns to treat here," said he. 

"Where is your ambrine?" 

"Don't use it," said the Doctor. 

I scolded him a bit less than I wanted to be- 
cause he gave me a box of cough lozenges. 

Beyond the Doctor's tent was a high struc- 
ture I could have found with my eyes shut from 
[137] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

the nut flavor of stored-up bread. Inside were 
great racks piled high with thousands of loaves. 
It is forbidden for me to remember the number 
of loaves the bakery produced in a day. That 
is unknown even to the censor. The sergeant 
gave me a couple of loaves to take home to 
Paris. 

My children have been eating dark war 
bread for so long that when they saw Uncle 
Sam's white bread they thought it was cake. 
The unsweet taste brought disillusion. 

"It isn't good cake," said Christine, "and 
it is n't good bread." She pushed it aside, and 
reached for another piece of the French bread 
we are being pitied for eating. 



[138] 



CHAPTER XV 

"takes a long, tall, brown -skin man to 
make a german lay his rifle down" 

One morning, when the children and I were 
eating our porridge, I heard men's voices and 
the sound of tools on the road. We went to 
the gate to look out. Negro soldiers were 
tumbling a pile of picks off a truck. When 
this was finished, two white sergeants jumped 
down from where they had been directing op- 
erations. The sergeants came over to greet 
us. One of them took Christine and Lloyd 
to explain to them how roads are mended. 
The other stayed with me. 

"Just look at those boys over there," said he. 
"Niggers can loaf more comfortably than any 
other kind of people, and they can do it any- 
[139] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

where." A negro corporal overheard this, and 
went over to and bawled the loafers out. 

One of them straightened up and retorted, 
"What 's de mattah wid yo', niggah? De war 
ain't gwine be ovah dis week!" 

The boys were scattered along the road in 
groups, attacking the holes of a year of heavy 
traffic. Uncle Sam's trucks have done the 
damage. Uncle Sam's soldiers are making 
the repairs. 

The group directly in front of the gate be- 
gan to sing, 

"Honey, wat 's yo' trouble ? 
(Bang went the picks.) 
Ain't got none. (Bang.) Won't be long. 

(Whistle.) 
Ah 'm gwine to tell yo', 

(Bang!) 
How Ah make it, 

(Bang!) 
An' it won't be long. 
(Bang!)" 

[140] 



"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN" 

"Can these boys fight as well as they can 
dig?" I asked. 

"They sure can," answered the sergeant. 
"The only thing they are afraid of is a grave- 
yard. When they get up to the front, they 
don't need guns and ammunition. A little 
rum and a razor and go to it!" 

"General Pershing will need you boys fur- 
ther up the line before long," I said. "You 
know the other day, when we heard he was 
inspecting Base One, the children took the 
flag down from the pole and put it right on 
the wall here with little stones on the top to 
keep the wind from blowing it away. They 
wanted to be sure their hero would see it. I 
wish you could have been here to share the 
children's delight when he did go by. They 
will never forget that their big general rose 
right up in his motor car — and saluted their 



Despite sergeant and a corporal, the sol- 
[141] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

diers would rest frequently on their picks, and 
they kept up a continuous conversation. 

"Oh, boy, — dis heah goin' ovah de top!" 
exclaimed one, mopping his forehead with a 
bandanna. "Dat was one fine speech young 
Pershing made to de boys. He said dat ebery 
one back heah is goin' to git his chance soonah 
o' latah. Ah jes knows how it 's goin' to be. 
Ah kin see it!" 

"How come you knows anything 'bout it, 
niggah ?" 

"Oh, boy! Can't you see it lak Ah do? 
You git yo' gun an' you counts yo' am'ni- 
tion and you makes yo' bay 'net all shiny. 
When de cap'n hollahs, 'Go!' — you jes' clam- 
mahs out o' dat trench an' you keep on shootin' 
Germans an' a-slashin' 'em wid dat dere 
bay'net-razah ob yourn tell the ain't no mo' 
Germans. Nen you comes on back tell de 
nex' time." 

"Um-um, — dat ain't it," remonstrated the 
[142] 



"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN" 

other. "Goin' obah de top is good mawnin', 
Jesus." 

"What is your name?" I put in, addressing 
the graphic describer of trench assaults. 

"Ah am George Darcy, ma'm." 

"Darcy! Why, that's a French name." 

"Ah dunno, ma'm." 

"Where are you from, Darcy?" 

"From Geo'gia. Yes, ma'm, some day — 
glory be — Ah '11 quit saying from — Ah '11 be 
in Geo'gia!" 

"Can't you boys sing for me?" I asked. 

"Yes um ! We got a leadah, name 's Paul 
Brown. Mistah Paul Brown from Pennsyl- 
vania — Gettysbu'g. Paw-ul! Oh, Paw-ul!" 
he called. 

Paul comes along, dragging his pick. 

"Paul is a good singer, but he 's no en- 
gineer," said the sergeant. "Last week an 
aviator flew over to our camp. He offered to 
take Paul up for a little spin. No, sir, Paul 
[148] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

proved that day he was no engineer — he re- 
fused to go up. Afraid that when he got up 
there somebody would shoot him for a damn 
blackbird." 

"I don't care what you think about aero- 
planes, Paul," I laughed. "If you will get 
these boys to sing for me, I '11 give you all some 
cider, and you may come in and eat your lunch 
under my trees." 

Paul eyed me. Then he giggled. 

"Dese heah boys is suff erin' mostly wid thote 
trouble. 'Pears to me dat ef we give 'em 
cidah to slick em thotes down good firs' — " 

" You tell it, boy !" laughed one of my chorus, 
encouragingly. 

They got their cider "firs'." 

"Some of you will have to drink out of the 
same bowls. I have n't enough to go around. 
Do you mind?" 

"No, ma'am, lady." 

"No seconds to-day," shouts one. In the 
rear of the group around the cider barrel (I 
[144] 



"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN" 

had taken them to the source of supply), an- 
other tells his neighbor, "Ah used to wuk fo' 
white-folks dat has a house somethin' lak dis. 
Li'l mo' style to it — but dey did n't give nig- 
gahs no cidah, uhm-uhm — !" 

After the morning had been devoted to a 
few holes and ruts, the men sat under the trees 
in my garden, talking as they finished their 
lunch. A couple of them picked up the papers 
in which the sandwiches had been wrapped, and 
took empty salmon cans back to the kitchen. 
Darcy found the rope I keep in my barn in 
case some motor breaks down and has to be 
towed. He laced it up and down through 
limbs of trees so that every kid of mine could 
have a swing. 

The sergeants smoked with me over coffee. 
"When negro troops first came to St. Nazaire 
they told the French that they were Ameri- 
can Indians," said Preston. 

"Their keen ear and extraordinary sense of 
rhythm made it fairly easy for them to pick 
[145] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

up a little French, too," added Smith. "But 
they don't all take advantage of it. At our 
camp a Y. M. C. A. secretary was talking to 
one of the men in my squad the other night 
about education. Put it straight to the fel- 
low. 'Joe, there is no use letting this chance 
slip by. You say you did n't finish your stud- 
ies. This is the time to learn something. 
Your work brings you in touch with the French 
civilian laborers. Mighty good way to get a 
promotion is to study French. Can I count 
on you to come around Thursday night for 
the first meeting of our class in beginners' 
French?' Joe, who had kept quiet all this 
time spoke slowly: 'Uhm-uhm — dey don't 
speak French in Berlin.' " 

"There was another good one I heard the 
other day," said Preston. "Nigger had a mis- 
ery. He went to the infirmary. Doctor said, 

" 'Where is it? In your back?' 

" 'No.' 

" 'In your chest?' 

[146] 



"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN" 

" 'No.' 

" 'In your head?' 

" 'No.' 

" 'How long have you been in the serv- 
ice?' 

" 'About three months.' 

" 'Have you been taught how to address offi- 
cers?' 

" 'Yes.' 

" 'Why don't you address me that way?' 

" 'Good Gawd! Is doctahs officahs, too?' ' 

"Were you in camp, Smith, last week when 
those new bunches of troops came in fresh 
from the States?" 

"The day the lieutenant lined the boys up 
and asked if there were a first-class bugler 
among them? That 's a good one. Tell Mrs. 
Gibbons." 

"The lieutenant lined them up, as Smith 
says, and asked: 

" 'How long have you been blowing a bugle, 
my boy?' 

[147] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

" 'I can't blow no bugle, suh. Lawd no! 
I thought you said burglar, suh.' " 

"Oh, they 're a great set of boys," said Pres- 
ton. "I 've soldiered with niggers ever since 
the beginning and I would n't change for any- 
thing. You can't help liking them. In the 
first place they get their fun out of their work. 
And then they '11 do anything on earth for 
the officer they like. That is the way with 
them. There is n't any sergeant in our par- 
ticular bunch that they hate, but they know 
which one they like best. If they get put 
with some one else, it 's just like you hit them 
in the head with a rock." 

"I issue stuff to the boys," said Smith. 
"Mrs. Gibbons, I have the same amount of 
safety razors to issue as the straight kind. 
I '11 bet I have n't had five men want to take 
safety razors ! A fight occurred in one of our 
barracks not long ago. One side did not know 
what to expect from the other because it was 
[148] 



"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN" 

known Sam had a safety razor. One of my 
men told me about it afterwards: 

" 'We done found out when de fight come off 
dat Sam may have had a safety razah fo' to do 
his face — but he had another in his boots fo' 
social purposes.' " 

"I pay the boys," said Preston. "They get 
their money changed into these French two- 
cent pieces with a hole punched in the middle 
and string it around their necks. Dear me!" 
he exclaimed. "It 's time to go back to work." 

"Let me have just a few minutes more," I 
begged. "I want your crowd to sign their 
name here in my visitors' book." 

The boys came in grinning. One of them 
pushed his fists away down in the pockets of 
his overall, and hunched his powerful shoul- 
ders. 

"Ah'd be tickled to death to hab mah name 
in dat swell book o' yourn," he said, "ef you 
would jes' please write it fo' me. Hit 's so 
[149] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

long since Ah lef ' school Ah done got plum out 
o' practice." 

"Mis' Gibbons," said another, "Ah 's hon- 
ah'd to be in dis heah Li'l Gray Home — Ah 
ben readin' 'bout it fo' yeahs." 

"Been here some time?" I asked him. 

"Yes, urn," he answered. "We done all 
land at de Po't ob Bres'." 

"Did you have a pretty good crossing?" 

"Dey say it was purty fair, but you know 
dey have me cookin' down to our camp and 
Ah can't bear to look at ma big box of salt — 
makes me think of dat ole ocean." 

"Back to work, boys," commanded the ser- 
geant. 

As the grown-up children moved out of my 
door I heard one chuckle, "Who says rocks 
can't move now?" 



[150] 



CHAPTER XVI 

A QUARRY AND A BUS 

"Have you forgotten?" 

The question was asked by a stout soldier 
rather older than most. 

"Forgotten that your lieutenant has asked 
the entire Gibbons family to have supper at the 
quarry to-night? If I forgot it myself, the 
children would remind me!" said I. 

"Come on, then," said Bob. "We want the 
whole crowd, you and the children and 
Mademoiselle Alice and Rosalie. We are all 
for Rosalie," he continued. "Every Sunday 
since the lieutenant discovered you, she has 
cooked for some of our fellows." 

"We '11 come right along." 

"All right. I '11 just go out and crank up 
[151] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

the bus. Jim 's with me— came along for the 
ride." 

"Sure you have room for everybody ?" 

"Better bring an old steamer-rug," said 
Bob. "They can put it on the floor to sit 
on." 

We piled in. 

"This bus is our maid-of-all-work," said 
Bob, as we bounced over a thank-you-ma'am in 
the road. 

"Aw, that 's all right, Mr. Shofer," broke 
in Jim. "Guess the missus can stand as 
much as what any of us can. She 's a war- 
horse." 

"The bus has earned her supper, all right," 
continued Bob. "We Ve had her southeast 
wheel jacked up all day with a belt hitched to 
it, pumping water." 

The quarry lies five miles down our road. 

All vou see of it in the road is the tent and 

*/ 

two barracks buildings. The lieutenant was 
waiting for us. 

[152] 



A QUARRY AND A BUS 

"The boys are just ready to go to supper," 
he said. "We shall put the Gibbons family at 
the head of the mess line." 

The mess kits were given to us when we got 
to the head of the line by the kitchen door. 
Caldrons rested on low packing-cases. Be- 
hind each caldron stood a soldier with ladle 
and fork. We had stewed tomatoes, baked 
hash, pudding, and coffee. The cook stepped 
out into the messroom from the kitchen. He 
was wiping his eyes with a khaki-colored hand- 
kerchief. 

"Great Csesar !" he exclaimed. "My fire has 
taken to smoking. We need gas masks!" 

After the Gibbons family was helped, the 
soldiers moved rapidly by the caldrons. It 
took no more time to serve a hundred men than 
to attend to us. We are not used to mess- 
kits, and little hands are wobbly. As I sat 
down, I reflected that neatness and precision 
in preparing and serving food belong not to 
women alone. 

[153] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"This dinner 's remarkably good," I said 
to the lieutenant. 

"Think so myself/' he answered. "The man 
that made it was a cook on a dining-car." 

We formed in line again and went along with 
the men to a spot outdoors where a double re- 
ceptacle contained hot water. It was propped 
up with stones over a fire. We dipped our 
forks and things into one side where there was 
water with washing soda in it, then into the 
other side to rinse them. 

The soldiers went from dishwashing into the 
tent where there were benches. I had ciga- 
rettes and chocolate. This isolated camp is 
not big enough to have a Y. M. C. A. hut. 
While the children were handing the cigarettes 
and chocolate around, I told the boys stories. 
In small camps men would rather talk than be 
talked at. I led them around to talking by 
telling them I was ready to answer questions. 
This always changes a formal lecture into a 
conversation. The first question was one I 
[154] 



A QUARRY AND A BUS 

invariably get in audiences of men who have 
not yet been to the front. 

"Were you in Paris during an air raid?" 

"Yes." 

"How do you feel? The other night we 
was blastin'. A corner of the barracks roof 
blowed off. You 'd a thought it was an air 
raid the way them brave soldiers ran." 

By this time the men were smoking com- 
fortably, for I had told them the old saying 
that "a woman is only a woman, but a good 
cigar is a smoke." 

The children handed song books around. 

"Say," inquired a soldier, "you ain't goin' 
to give us any of this here smile smile business, 
are you?" 

"Certainly not." 

"We don't always feel like smiling, you 
know," he went on. 

"If you feel that way, let 's begin with the 
saddest song in the book. How about, 
'Massa 's in de cold, cold ground' ?" 
[155] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

They wailed through the song with perfect 
application and imperfect harmony. 

"Now we 've got that off our chest,". I sug- 
gested, "is 'Kentucky Home' too cheerful? 
Let 's get together better on this one. When 
we come to the chorus the boys on my right- 
hand side of the aisle are to whistle." 

It was a hit. Somebody in the back of the 
tent stood up and proposed another. 

"How about 'Dixie'!" 

As the soldiers say, it was "goin' good" 
now. 

We finished the singing with "I Went to 
the Animal Fair." In the end the boys were 
laughing so much they got mixed up. They 
couldn't decide who should sing the verse 
and who should shout, "Monkey, monkey, 
monkey." 

The meeting broke up with more questions, 
this time of a personal nature that involved 
digging photographs of mothers and sweet- 
hearts and babies out of pockets, or running 
[156] 



A QUARRY AND A BUS 

over to the barracks to get them from the other 
coat. 

"Could you come with me to the quarry?" 
said the lieutenant. "My night shift is down 
there breaking stone. Unless you are tired, 
I 'd like you to say something to them." 

I left the children sitting on laps. Rosalie 
was inspecting the kitchen. Alice had found 
a soldier who said he could speak French. 

"Speak French? Yes, ma'am — I thought I 
did some," he said. "I have been here a year 
in this base. I was sent to Paris for a month. 
They told me there I spoke Breton and not 
French at all!" 

It was dark and Lieutenant Greig had to 
use his pocket flashlight to show me the way. 
He asked the soldiers to stop their work and 
come over near the acetylene lamp that threw 
light where they were breaking stone. 

When we finished the songs, I asked these 
boys if they had best girls back home. 

"My best girl is my mother," said one. 
[157] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"The other kind sort o' loses out when you get 
so far away unless you were engaged or mar- 
ried before you left!" 

When we got back to the tent there was ap- 
ple pie. I sat down to eat mine with a little 
group of soldiers. 

"We are going to leave our happy home, 
Mrs. Gibbons," said Bob. "I guess when we 
get up to the front, there will be many times 
we '11 regret the old quarry. Men in this out- 
fit come from forty-two different States, but 
Lieutenant Greig is a real leader, and we are 
a united crowd." 

"We '11 miss you, too," said Jim. "You 're 
the only person that has paid any attention to 
us in France. It has been good to be able to 
drop in at the Little Gray Home. You don't 
know what it means to talk to an American 
woman over here. Different with the French. 
Got to talk broken to them and it mostly ends 
in c no compree? J " 

"I 'm glad to go," said Albert. "I 'm funny 
[158] 



A QUARRY AND A BUS 

that way." (Albert put emphasis on "that" 
and slurred "way." He comes from Colum- 
bia, Pennsylvania.) "I want to be on the 
move. To a railroad man there 's no sound 
like wheels rolling." 

Jim shook his head. "No," said he, "I 'm 
glad to go to the front and do my part and all 
that, but after the war the States will hold me. 
I won't budge farther from home than the 
length of my wife's apron strings. 'T ain't 
the movin' about that bothers me. If they 
shoot my leg or my block off, clean like, there 'd 
be the end of it. See? What I don't want 
is funny business with nerves. I was on a job 
once where I had to climb up a crane. One 
day I fell thirty feet. Spent two months in a 
hospital. Now I can't bear to get off the 
ground, not even into a tree. If I do, either 
the tree shakes or I shake. See what I mean? 
A man's memory is bound to work on what 
happens to him at the front. It 's them kind 
of things that I dread, not gettin' shot up." 
[159] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"I know exactly what you mean," said I. 
"There are two things I cannot bear. One is 
to hear bugling." 

"Why?" 

"Because in Tarsus the Turks bugled to call 
the crowd together to begin the massacres." 

"Sure," said Jim, placing his hand on his 
stomach and drawing his breath quickly. 
"Get 's you here. Cold feeling. What is the 
other thing you don't like?" 

"Last Saturday I went to Angers to see 
my brother. We were sitting at a table on 
the pavement in front of a cafe. A civilian 
motor whizzed past, blowing a siren horn. I 
tightened my two fists and kept quiet. My 
brother said, 'I know how you feel. To me 
that means a moonlight night back of the 
lines.' " 

"How many air raids have you been in?" 
said Jim. 

"Twenty-seven." 

[160] 



A QUARRY AND A BUS 

"Say! What are you going to do after 
this war? Goin' back to America ?" 

"Yes!" 

"Goin' to put your traveling shoes under the 
stove and let 'em stay there!" 



[161] 



CHAPTER XVII 

A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER 

I do not know whether I belong in A, B, C, 
or D Class. Conducting officers are tipped off 
from Headquarters about writers to whom 
passes are granted. What you may see is 
down in black and white according to how im- 
portant they think you are and how far they 
feel they can trust you. When the conduct- 
ing lieutenant came to the Little Gray Home 
to fetch me this morning, he kept well the 
secret of my rating. After a comprehensive 
trip over the base, I asked to see an American 
heavy cannon mounted on a train of its own. 
The lieutenant did not say no. 

The automobile followed the main road for 
a bit and then went across country. Finally 
[162] 



A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER 

we were bumping over fields, and occasionally 
sinking into them. 

We came to railroad tracks. The cannon 
train was before me, on its immense trucks. 
Poking its barrel proudly aloft, it was like a 
giant menacing forefinger calling upon aveng- 
ing gods of justice. A guard was swinging 
his legs off the edge of a truck. 

"How-do-you-do," I greeted him. "Will 
you let us take a look at your cannon?" 

He jumped down and saluted. 

"We never open it on account of the dust," 
said he. "The inside works are greased, and 
if dust should settle on them — " He paused 
for words to express how great would be the 
calamity. 

"What I don't see," I continued, "is why the 
thing does n't rip itself right off the tracks 
when you fire it." 

The lieutenant took papers from his wallet 
and handed them to the guard. 

"Come on," said he, "this way." 
[163] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

We walked along the platform. 

"There 's more to it than just a cannon," 
said he. "There 's a crew, upwards of sixty 
men. They Ve got their quarters and the offi- 
cers have theirs. There are containers for the 
ammunition and a couple of cars for supplies." 

"Another train identical with this," put in 
the conducting lieutenant, "went out yester- 
day. The boys called it the Berlin Express" 

"Ours is the Little Dutch Cleanser/' said 
the guard, smiling proudly. "We 're pulling 
out to-morrow." 

We stopped before one of the coaches. 

"This here is a messroom for the men. Can 
you take a high step, lady?" 

We climbed on the train and found ourselves 
in the kitchen. A soldier was preparing lunch- 
eon. I sniffed. 

"My! That coffee smells good!" 

"Want some?" said the guard. "Our coffee 
is no good, I never drink it myself. Give her 
a cup, Charlie." 

[164] 



A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER 

Charlie poured a mug and added cream from 
a tin can. 

"Why, it's wonderful coffee!" I protested. 

Everybody laughed. 

"Oh!" said the guard, "there 's two hospital 
cars, too. Want to see them? Doc 's in there 
now." 

We walked through the messroom into the 
doctor's quarters. 

"A lady and an officer wants to look at 
your outfit, Captain," announced the 
guard. 

"Come in," said the doctor. "We 've had 
only two days to arrange things here, so don't 
mind what you see." 

What we did see was a magnificent white 
enamel interior. There was a faint smell of 
carbolic acid, and every available inch of space 
told. The next car had bunks. In it were 
two patients. One had got something in his 
eye, and the other was mending an arm broken 
by the kick of the gun. 

[165] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Americans everywhere, aren't there?" I 
said. 

"You bet you," said the boy with the broken 
arm. "Coming all the way from Hell Gate 
to Barnegat." 

"What 's the answer to the Austrian note?" 
I asked. 

"Take Metz," said the guard. He hitched 
a thumb over his shoulder to point to the gun. 

"And after that?" I went on. 

"Go home." 

"Who will be the last to leave, I wonder?" 

"We will," said the captain, conclusively. 
"Doctors will stay in France long after peace 
is declared to take care of the men." 

"They all tell me that," said I. "The en- 
gineers claim they will have to make the coun- 
try tidy after the infantry goes. The quarter- 
master corps people say they must stay, of 
course, to feed everybody. The telephone girls 
know they will be needed till the last minute. 
Accountants know they must clear up financial 
[166] 



A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER 

matters before they see the States. Truck 
drivers say they will have to stay till the last 
load of baggage is hauled. And a colored 
soldier told me the other day, 'When we all 
done climb 'board dat ship, de cap'n '11 be 
standin' dere wid his old opera glasses an' de 
whistle '11 be bio win'. He '11 spy me an' say, 
"Sam, jes take a broom an' go down and sweep 
off dat dock, fore we sails." ' " 

"One thing is certain," put in the captain; 
"we shall stick by the game as long as there 
is fighting to do. We 're going to catch Jerry 
Boche and hand him over to these people to do 
what they like with him. But if they expect 
us to stay over here after that is done, they 
guess again. The boys call the cannon their 
Little Dutch Cleanser. We shall clean up the 
job, and after that it 's H-O-M-E!" 



[167] 



CHAPTER XVIII 

GENTLEMEN ALL 

A four-mule team stopped at our door. 
Sergeant Applegate appeared with a basket in 
one hand and a package carefully balanced 
in the other. 

"A little present from us boys," he said, as 
he set the things down on the study table. 

"Vegetables, fresh vegetables !" I cried. 

"We know you have trouble getting green 
things. The summer has been bone-dry and 
I 'm sure the peasants 'round here tell you 
their crops have failed." 

He cut the string with his penknife and took 
off the lid of the basket. 

"Beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a lot of 
lettuce at the bottom." 

[168] 



GENTLEMEN ALL 

"How is it you can grow vegetables and the 
peasants can't?" 

"Good American watering-cans and plenty 
of people to use them," said the sergeant. 
"Tedious work for the soldiers every night 
after sun-down. We 've been praying for 
rain, and I guess our prayers are no good. 
The boys told me to ask you to pray like any- 
thing to-day so they would n't have to do the 
sprinkling to-night." 

"Where are you bound for?" I asked. 

"The Holy City. We are turning in the 
mules, worse luck. They sent them to us to be 
fattened up, and just when we need them they 
are called in." 

"You won't be sorry to loose Molly, though, 
will you? The boy that was plowing with her 
the last time we had dinner at the farm told 
Lloyd and me that Molly has no ambition. 
You 've certainly given us a treat," said I. 

"The vegetables?" said the sergeant. "Oh, 
that 's not much. Here 's the real treat." 
[169] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

He took the paper off the package. 

"When you were at the farm, you told us 
how you had been trying to collect enough but- 
ter and flour and eggs to make a cake. We 
made one for you." 

"A chocolate layer cake!" I exclaimed. 

"We knew you had invited the boys from 
the garage to dinner to-night, and we thought 
these things would come in handy. It may 
take us all day to turn over the mules, and get 
another skinny team, so I don't say we won't 
drop in here at dinner time." 

In the evening, I put candles in the dining- 
room. Two tables were set to hold the crowd. 
Daddy had come in time for the party, and was 
in the kitchen carving the chickens Rosalie 
roasted. Madame Criaud and Francois' 
mother had killed their choicest birds for the 
feast. Early and late the boys at the garage 
had done things for us. Before I returned 
to Paris, I wanted to get them together to 
say "thank you." The soldiers who interest 
[170] 



GENTLEMEN ALL 

me the most are those that have their two hands 
on the steering wheel of a motor truck, and the 
chauffeurs I know the best are those at the Sav- 
enay hospital. They are men from many parts 
of the U. S. A. Some of them have cars of 
their own at home. Two of them are brothers 
who, since their father bought one of the first 
twelve cars that existed in America, have en- 
joyed the use of twenty-eight other cars of their 
own. The roof of the garage at the Savenay 
hospital shelters more than tools and gasoline 
and motors. The boys that work there have 
knuckled down to their job far from the excit- 
ing front-line trenches that lured them into 
enlisting in the motor service of a hospital unit 
in the hope of getting into the fight before 
anybody else. They have courage and court- 
esy and cheer. Perhaps the open-air life and 
being constantly on the move improves a fel- 
low's disposition. Perhaps these boys are spe- 
cial people. I doubt it. I believe they are 
typical nephews of Uncle Sam, ready to take 
[171] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

any job Uncle Sam puts them at. Certain 
it is that when I chose a group of our soldiers 
to show off to an inquiring French journalist 
who needed to be convinced of the high quality 
of the American Expeditionary Force I led 
him to the Savenay garage and swore to him, 
after he had seen those men as I see them, that 
the whole American army is made up of boys 
of the same sort. 

The sound of an approaching motor was 
heard and the singing got nearer. The boys 
trooped in. 

"Where is your lieutenant?" I asked. 

"On duty at the garage, so we could come." 

"Did he send you all?" 

"All but three that had to stay for emerg- 
ency trips." 

Before we sat down to dinner, one of the 
soldiers said, "Look how I pinched my hand 
cranking our ambulance to-night." 

"Here 's my chance," said I, "to christen my 
new medicine cabinet. The boys who work in 
[172] 



GENTLEMEN ALL 

the car-assembling department at the motor 
reception park in the Holy City made it for 
me." I led the way to the study, where I 
scrubbed the hand with carbolic soap. 

"Gee, look at the miles of bandages !" said 
my patient. 

"Yes," said I, "and here 's just the thing to 
heal up that bruise. It is painful to have any- 
thing happen to the fleshy part of your hand 
at the base of the thumb." 

"The guy that slung the brushes on that 
chest of yours was some painter!" 

"See how well he put in the lettering on the 
top, 'A Little Gray Home in France,' and 
look inside the lid, 'C. Curtis, The Painter.' " 

"What 's this name in the other corner, 
'Nigh'?" 

"That is the doctor. He thought of the 
medicine cabinet and fitted it up for me. He 
knows I often have to do a dressing like this 
and he calls the Little Gray Home a field 
branch of his office." 

[173] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

When the last of the chocolate cake was dis- 
appearing, we heard wheels. Sergeant Ap- 
plegate and his men walked in. 

"I never appreciated this place as I do to- 
night," said the sergeant, as he took off his 
overcoat. "We are dog-tired. Say, I should 
have asked you to wait till to-morrow to pray 
for that rain. It 's pouring." 

We patched up a dinner for the late-comers, 
and I sat and talked with them while the others 
smoked with Daddy in the study. 

"How goes the farm?" I asked. 

"During the week ending last night we sent 
over to the hospital fifteen hundred francs' 
worth of vegetables," said the sergeant. 

"All for patients, I suppose?" 

"Yes, and you may be sure they enjoyed 
them." 

"Tell me how you came to get that farm," I 
suggested. 

"It started in a small way," began the ser- 
geant. "When the first unit marched up from 
[174] 



GENTLEMEN ALL 

the Holy City to Savenay to begin work on 
the hospital, two or three of us got it into our 
heads that part of our job is teaching con- 
valescents that they are useful. Fresh air and 
work, the results of which could be seen and 
handled, there must be, if our wounded are 
to be led to where they can face the future with 
hope." 

"I see," said I ; "like the schools for the re- 
education of French soldiers." 

"Bill and Jack and I had our eye on this 
farm because the fields run right up to the 
property leased by the hospital. The colonel 
backed us, and we were allowed to rent the 
farm. At first there were more men in the 
unit than patients in the wards. We were able 
to slip out and lose ourselves there. We 
cleaned up the farmhouse, made furniture of 
packing cases, and prepared the land for plant- 
ing. When our gardens began to yield, we in- 
vited the colonel to dinner. The spell of the 
place got him the way it had us. He took off 
[175] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

his blouse and his Sam Brown belt and sat 
down to eat with us boys. He was so de- 
lighted with the lettuce and fresh peas that he 
was able to catch the vision of what the farm 
would mean to patients. He promised to send 
convalescents here to work, for he saw with us 
that the work was twofold; first, the good it 
would do the sick boys to have an unlimited 
supply of farm products ; and then the benefit 
that would come to convalescents from being 
allowed to work. He enlisted the aid of the 
American Red Cross in the development of our 
idea. The work of the farm is all done by 
patients. Bill and Jack and I direct it and 
jolly the men who are discouraged." 

"Men who are well enough are ordered 
there," I asked, "detailed to light duty as if 
they were in a camp?" 

"The boys are ordered to come, of course," 

he replied. "But once there we drop military 

stuff. It is a difficult proposition to teach 

cripples how to work. If we had military 

[176] 



GENTLEMEN ALL 

discipline it would be next to impossible to dis- 
pel embarrassment or resentment in the men 
who come to us. Usually a detail is sent out 
in charge of a sergeant, who watches them like 
a foreman. You take a one-legged boy or- 
dered to report at the farm. He joins others, 
one-eyed boys, patients suffering from shell- 
shock, and they are brought to the farm in a 
truck. You should see their faces when we 
put them on their honor, send them out to weed 
or water the garden, and then let them alone. 
They do wonders. The proof is in the re- 
sults." 

"You must have lots of fun," said I. 

"Indeed we do. Last week we had a bunch 
of East-siders from New York at the thresh- 
ing machine and it was all we could do to get 
them away from it. They had never seen any- 
thing like that before." 

One of the boys came in from the study. 

"Say, do you chew tobacco, Mrs. Gib- 
bons?" 

[177] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"No," I answered. "Why?" 

"Well, there was a package of chewing 
tobacco on your desk — " 

"Yes, I know. About two weeks ago I had 
a convoy here for the night and just before 
they left a soldier gave me that. He said he 
wanted to do something for me and he thought 
the best way to please me was to give me some- 
thing for some buddy. 'If you 're a chewin' 
guy and you ain't got no wad, it 's hell.' It 
has been like that all summer. Boys that had 
plenty of tobacco gave me some for those that 
might be without. I have never bought ciga- 
rettes. Do you want that pack of chewing 
tobacco?" 

"Got it in my pocket," patting his hip. 

"You get all sorts and kinds of men here," 
said Sergeant Applegate, "like us at the farm. 
Colonels and majors down to buck privates." 

"Mostly buck privates," I commented; "rep- 
resentatives of a hundred and eight organiza- 
tions have been here. And, do you know, I 
[178] 



GENTLEMEN ALL 

have never had a single man do or say anything 
that offended me." 

"How do you manage if you have a mixed 
bunch, for dinner? Say a captain and a lieu- 
tenant and three or four soldiers. How do 
you seat them?" 

"I ask the officers to play their bars are 
gone and to sprout wings instead." 

"And do you get away with it?" 

"Yes, we all sit down together at table. It 
works out all right because you are gentlemen 
all." 



[179] 



CHAPTER XIX 

WHERE IS JACK? 

"It has come — the cablegram!" 

Captain Wilson climbed down from his car. 

"And it is—?" 

"A son. Our first boy, born on August 14." 

"Congratulations, Captain!" We shook 
hands. 

"I 'm a happy man to-day," said the cap- 
tain. "Think how long I 've waited for the 
news. To-day is the sixteenth of September." 

"A comforting thought is that letters are 
certain to come quickly after the cablegram. 
And you '11 know right away who he looks like, 
whether his hair is curly, and his name." 

"Let 's go to the soda-water fountain," sug- 
gested the captain. "I never miss a chance 
to get a drink of water from your well." 
[180] 



WHERE IS JACK? 

He opened the knotted string of the door 
to the wire cage around the well. 

"I have to keep that tied so the children 
won't fall in," I said. 

We let down the pail. 

"Carefully, Captain. Be sure the chain 
winds up on this side, otherwise the pail gets 
lost. Rosalie is sick of fishing it out." 

"Why don't you have Daniel Finney mend 
it while he's here? I see. Your trouble is 
with the windlass. Finney ! Come here a mo- 
ment." 

Finney is the captain's colored orderly. 
He came to the Little Gray Home early this 
morning with tools, a bag of cement, and a 
pole, to fulfil a promise of arranging the chil- 
dren's flag. They want to put it up and take 
it down like soldiers they have seen in the 
camps. 

"Look at this windlass, my boy," said the 
captain. 

"Done got sprung, ain't it, suh?" 
[181] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"Get your pliers and bend it here," said 
the captain. 

When Finney had done the trick, he poured 
himself a drink of water. 

"Dat's a treat," said Finney. "Yes, um, 
dey ain't no tas' ob disinfectin' 'bout it." 

"And I know it won't hurt you," said I, 
"for I had it analysed at the hospital labora- 
tory when I first came. The boys stop here 
twenty times a day just on account of that 
well." 

"Some of them do it for an excuse to play 
with the children," laughed the captain. 

"Perhaps," I agreed. "The other day there 
was a crowd here and they had a circus. Got 
out an old invalid chair they found in the barn. 
One soldier sat in with the baby on his lap, and 
the whole crowd chased round and round the 
center flower-bed with puppy yapping at 
their heels. They even mobilized the chick- 
ens!" 

"Wisht Ah'd been heah," put in Daniel 
[182] 



WHERE IS JACK? 

Finney. "Ah 'd a cotched one ob dem chick- 
ens an' we 'd a broiled it. 'Scuse me, Mis' 
Gibbons, if Ah takes nuther drink ob dat 
watah." 

"You stick to that kind of drink," said the 
captain, "and I '11 never put you in the guard 
house again for beaucoup zigzag'' 

"Ah ain't a drinkin' man, Cap'n, you knows 
dat. Ah says gen'ly to de boys to jes drink 
enuf ob dis yeah vinn blank dat dey kin take 
keer ob it an' not so much dat de drink '11 take 
keer ob dem." 

Mimi came skipping over, carrying an Al- 
satian dollie by the foot. The captain tossed 
her up in his arms. She hugged him enthusi- 
astically. 

"Who is sweet?" said the captain. 

"It 's me! Captain, do you know where is 
Jack?" 

"Jack? No, dear." 

"He is gone!" Shaking her head and hold- 
ing up her forefinger, she emphasized her 
[183] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

words. "And I don't know where is he at all, 
at all, at all!" 

"Mimi's concern for Jack is as deep as her 
English is picturesque," said the captain. 
"Where are the other children?" 

"Gone off for the day. A truck stopped 
here this morning. The driver was an Ameri- 
can Indian with fire in his eye. He told me 
that homesickness for his little boy in America 
was more than he could bear to-day and he 
wanted to borrow two of my children." 

"You let him have them, did n't you?" 

"Yes. He said that before anything could 
happen to those children he would be a dead 
Indian. When they pulled out, he was tuck- 
ing Christine and Lloyd in with his overcoat 
and Lloyd was asking him why he did n't wear 
feathers. You see Lloyd is like a French boy. 
He has got his ideas of American Indians from 
Wild West pictures at the movies." 

We sat on a garden bench with Mimi be- 
tween us. 

[184] 



WHERE IS JACK? 

"Come on and tell us about Jack," said the 
captain. 

"I did see him the first time at the hospital 
when he was a sick boy and I did take him for 
my good soldier." 

"I did take him," the captain smiled at me. 

"Yes. Mimi does not yet attempt past 
tenses in English. She gets around by con- 
jugating with 'did.' " 

"He did call me to come quickly," said Mimi. 
"And I did love him wit' all my heart." 

"Why did you love him?" asked the captain. 
He took out a cigar. Mimi wanted to light it 
for him. 

"I do it for papa," she said, dropping the 
match on the grass. 

"Why I did love Jack? Because he would 
hurt the Germans and he would n't hurt me." 

"What did Jack do to make you love him?" 
asked the captain. 

"He did remember mint sticks when he did 
say it, and he did play and sing for me and 
[185] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

did n't stop. He did play the piano. He did 
tell me stories about serpents and litta boys. 
Serpents — like serpents, but not truly ser- 
pents. He did tell me another story of a big 
thing that would come at night and would get 
on the back of a soldier, and that soldier was 
Jack when he was dreaming. It did scratch 
and bite him. Jack has such a pitty face and 
eyes that laugh. Mama, will you tell Jack to 
come again?" 

"Um-um." 

"I 'd rather you 'd say yes or no, comme 
fa. Sometimes um-um means yes and some- 
times it means no." 

"Mimi is all for precision, is n't she?" asked 
the captain. 

"Precision, is dat Fwench? What does it 
mean?" she chuckled. 

"Go ask Daniel Finney," suggested the 
captain. 

Mimi hopped down and ran away to where 
[186] 



WHERE IS JACK? 

Daniel Finney was adjusting the ropes on the 
flag-pole. 

"Where is Jack?" asked the captain. 

"That 's just the trouble," I answered. 
"We don't know, and Mimi asks everybody 
she meets, whether they have seen him. 

"Jack was a Savenay patient. He had 
shell-shock, and was a bit queer — nothing vio- 
lent or irresponsible. He just acted dazed, 
and seemed to be forgetful and apathetic. I 
was at the hospital one day, with Mimi, and 
left her talking to some boys while I went to 
see the colonel about something. When I 
came out, I found Mimi perched on the coping 
of the wall, dangling her little legs, and with 
one arm around the neck of a marine. 'This 
is Jack, Mama,' she said, 'and I love him and 
I am going to take him home with me.' 

"Jack used to come out almost every day to 
the Little Gray Home. I suppose he got a 
lift mostly, but I know he often walked the 
[187] 



THE LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

whole distance. He would sit around for 
hours reading and talking to Mimi. Then 
after a couple of weeks, he sat down at the 
piano one day, and played and sang. He 
had never mentioned music before. He got 
better after that, and was more cheerful and 
animated. He would play with the kids, and 
helped them dig trenches and a dug-out and 
put up a tent. 

"Then suddenly he dropped out of our life. 
We have heard nothing more of him. He has 
been sent home or back to some light job in 
the S. O. S., and will certainly write to us. 
But poor little Mimi asks every soldier she 
sees, ' Where is Jack? Do you know Jack?' " 

"The boys who have shell-shock or who have 
become unbalanced through the strain of fight- 
ing are a difficult proposition for the A. E. F. 
to handle," said the captain. "Few of them 
are really insane — very few, and in most cases 
nerves are on edge without really affecting the 
mind, that is in the sense of loss of control of 
[188] 



WHERE IS JACK? 

one's mental processes. It is a cloud, happily 
a temporary cloud, as in the case of your Jack. 
If only we could have a Little Gray Home 
and a Mimi for each case, cure would be 
rapid." 

"And you can't always tell certainly which 
are mental or shell-shock cases in the hurry of 
evacuation," I said. "Just after the brilliant 
drive from Chateau-Thierry to Fismes, I re- 
ceived a letter from a friend of my brother's 
who complained that he had been sent to a 
hospital for mental cases by mistake. He 
wrote, 'AH the patients here are nuts, and the 
doctors are nuts, too. They 're worse than the 
patients.' This made me wonder. So I read 
the letter to the colonel at Savenay, pausing 
after this extraordinary statement. 

" 'Sure proof that the man's sane!' com- 
mented the colonel, laughing heartily. He 
called over the major in charge of mental cases, 
and made me reread the statement to him. 
'Look out, Brown,' he said. "You see what 
[189] 



THE LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

the patients think about those who care for 
them/ " 

"The colonel was right. It 's hard to deal 
with mental cases without reflecting in your- 
self their condition," said the captain. 

"Did you ever talk to a brain specialist?" 
I demanded. "I met one once on a railroad 
journey, and he was explaining mental cases 
in the army to me. He said that the line be- 
tween sanity and insanity is slightly marked 
for all of us, and small things may push one 
over the line. The doctor insisted that he 
could tell a crazy person when he saw one, and 
that I 'd be astonished if I knew how many peo- 
ple are crazy. 'I see cases all the time,' as- 
serted the doctor, 'and the funny thing is they 
don't know they 're cases.' The doctor was 
eyeing me narrowly. 'You can't fool me,' he 
said. By this time I 'm sure that he and I 
thought the other mentally unbalanced." 

The captain wanted to inspect the flag-pole. 
I went into the house to finish my mail be- 
[190] 



WHERE IS JACK? 

fore the postman came. When I came out 
again into the garden I couldn't find the 
captain. 

"Ah think de boss is in de kitchen," said 
Daniel Finney. "Yes, um, he went obah dere 
wid Miss Mimi a minute ago." 

There he was, bending over the stove. 

"You 've caught me," said he, laughing. 
"I 'm looking in the sauce-pan to see if there 
is enough for me to stay." 

The truck came back with the children. 
"I Ve had my lunch," said Christine. 

"And Lloyd," said the Indian soldier, "won't 
want any. He 's eaten too many ginger 
snaps." 

"I ate in a tent," said Christine. "A soldier 
made hot cakes for me. There were some 
more soldiers there, too," she went on, "playing 
cards with match sticks." 

When the captain got ready to leave he 
could not find the men who had come with 
him. We discovered them in the garden back 
[191] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

of the house, lying on the grass in the sun. 
They had gone there after their lunch. 

"Feel at home, don't they?" said the cap- 
tain. "My men work long and hard and the 
little breathing space will make them better 
soldiers. I thought I deserved the fuss 
you 've made over me to-day on account of 
my cablegram. Don't forget that enlisted 
men are not the only ones that need to be 
treated special." 



[192] 



CHAPTER XX 

WHEN WE GET BACK 

If I am more at home one day than another 
it is Sunday. The decree went out from our 
general-in-chief early in the game that as 
far as possible throughout the American army 
in France the Sabbath must be a day of rest. 
Boys turn up at the Little Gray Home at any 
hour, according to their passes. Just after 
lunch I was sitting in the summer-house when 
four boys on bicycles wheeled by. As they 
passed the window, I waved to them. 

"Hello, sweetie!" shouted one. 

The children ran out and invited the sol- 
diers in. Mimi took two of them by the hand, 
and led them over to where other soldiers were 
sitting under a tree. I heard her say, "I like 
you ; you 're my soldier." 
[193] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"American children. Good Lord! It is six 
months since I have seen any," said one. 

When Rosalie brought out glasses and things 
for lemonade, Christine came skipping over 
to get mother to come. I sat down beside 
the tray and began to put slices of lemon into 
glasses. 

"I can't wait another minute to ask you to 
forgive me for, for — what I said." 

"Oh, you 're the boy that called me sweetie," 
I exclaimed. 

"Yes, ma'am. I 'm ashamed of myself. I 
did not know you could understand English. 
If I had known there was an American mother 
and her children in here, I never — " 

"Never mind, my dear boy, I forgive you. 
In fact I am old enough to be nearly flattered 
that you said it. Do you like jumping lemon- 
ade?" 

"Jumping lemonade! What 's that." 

"It 's one of our family institutions. My 
mother invented it. You take a slice of 
[194] 



WHEN WE GET BACK 

lemon in a glass, put in sugar over it, then you 
jump on it with your spoon like this, until you 
get a lot of juice. Then you pour water on 
it." 

"You 'd use ice water if you were home, 
Mrs. Gibbons," said the boy who was aDKE 
at Yale in my brother's time. 

"You would that," confirmed the cow- 
puncher. "Down in Texas we — " 

"Say, are you from Texas?" 

"I sure am. We Ve got the greatest cattle. 
Look at that." 

He drew from his wallet a grimy treasured 
postal card showing a giant bull. 

"That there animal measures six feet four 
inches from tip to tip of his horns !" 

The lad from Virginia gave me a smile. 
"Buddy," he said, "I guess your creed is: I 
believe in Texas." 

"Funny the difference of opinion about 
Texas," said the D K E from Yale. 
"There 's an orderly in my company who 
[195] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

used to be a traveling salesman before he en- 
listed. He has been down that way, and puts 
his feeling about the State something like 
this, 'If I owned Texas and hell, I would rent 
Texas and live in the other place !' " 

The cowpuncher found a more sympathetic 
listener in the lad from Virginia. I heard the 
cowpuncher tell the lad from Virginia that the 
D K E from Yale was "one of them rattle- 
headed guys you find in this man's army." 

"Speaking of home, what are you boys go- 
ing to do when you get back there?" 

"Oh, gee!" cried the cowpuncher, "after I 
get back to punchin', if the Statue of Liberty 
ever wants to look at me again she 's got to 
turn around." 

"I see," said I, "you 're a regular home boy, 
aren't you!" 

"You said something, ma'am, you said some- 
thing!" He waved his glass around, and 
handed it back for more lemon to jump on. 

"When we get back, there 's one thing sure," 
[196] 



WHEN WE GET BACK 

said the D K E from Yale; "the slackers and 
the slickers will have nothing to do to save 
themselves but go and hide. There are no 
slackers in our house," he went on; "they 
could n't get more out of our family unless they 
took mother. My brother is in aviation, 
sister's husband is an artillery officer, and 
dad's on a battleship looking for submarines." 
"Slickers? What are slickers?" 
"A slicker is a guy that sits in a swivel chair 
in Washington," said the cowpuncher. 

"Like a pal I have down to the camp," put 
in a Minnesotan. "Red is his name. He is 
Irish. When Red goes home, he says he in- 
tends to get three jobs. When the boss looks 
cross-eyed at him, he will quit — just to show 
he can quit. He is going to a restaurant near 
the dock in New York. Will order a planked 
steak for three. Not on a plate either — he 
says he wants it on a platter. When the waiter 
asks him where the other two are, he will slap 
his chest and sing out that he is the other two." 
[197] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"I 'm going to get me my same job when 
I go back," said the lad from Virginia. "Paid 
me two hundred dollars a month," 

He emptied his purse, and counted his 
money. 

"Twenty-five, thirty-five, forty-five, fifty- 
five centimes — that 's eleven cents — except the 
American nickel, but there won't any Frog 
git that." 

George Dayton and Ralph Lind joined us. 

"I think when I go home," said Ralph, "I 
could be a laundry clerk in some hotel. I 've 
been fighting French laundresses down at our 
camp. I 've had to make out slips to be used 
as a pass into camp. Also lists stating the 
prices the women are allowed to charge. I 
found they were asking thirty cents to wash an 
O. D. shirt, and one man got stuck ten francs 
for getting an army blanket washed. You 
know I am provost-sergeant, and all those 
troubles are put up to me to solve in the old 
army game of passing the buck. We could 
[198] 



WHEN WE GET BACK 

not afford to pay excessive prices, so I hit 
upon this scheme. When I landed a French 
interpreter to explain to the laundresses what 
the passes were for, they cried. Said we were 
trying to cheat a lot of hard-working women, 
and they could not afford to do the laundry 
for less. But they did need our money, and 
finally a couple of them accepted the army 
terms. Next day the rest of them came 
around and were glad to get a chance at a 
pass at any price. I had instructed the guards 
to keep them all out unless they had one. 
See? Well, it all runs smoothly now, and they 
call me the father of the laundry bill." 

"Laundry clerk in a hotel ain't such a bad 
job," mused the cowpuncher. "You could 
live there maybe, anyway git your chow. I '11 
be soon back to my punchin'. Eye's gone bad 
— I was in a mustard attack up the line. Gee, 
it was fierce. Before that the worst I 'd known 
was a mouthful of Bull Durham — yankin' my 
handkerchief out of my tobacco pocket, see?" 
[199] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"I tell you, Mrs. Gibbons," said George, 
"when we go back to the States we can't go 
far wrong if we stick to work that has to do 
with the primary needs of humanity. We '11 
have to get back to the beginnings of things 
not only in the sense of starting all over again 
ourselves, but also in the kind of jobs we look 
for. Got to steer clear of what the French 
call a metier de luxe! 3 

"Got to cut out high-brow stuff, ain't we?" 
agreed the cowpuncher. 

"Sure," said George, moving over and sit- 
ting down beside the cowpuncher. "You see 
what I mean." 

War brings together men who would never 
have known each other before and friendships 
are born on a new plane. 

"Will our girls get us there? What do you 
think about it, Mrs. Gibbons?" 

"You mean," said I, "will the American girl 
be content with plain living and willing to 
work hard?" 

[200] 



WHEN WE GET BACK 

"Yes," said George, making room for Titine 
beside him and stopping to fix her hair ribbon 
for her, "yes, but more than that. Take it 
like this — soldiers, men from all walks of life, 
have learned the lesson that they can get along 
on nothing at all. And have a good time, too. 
See here ! Failure to reduce living to simplest 
terms, lack of self-sacrifice and lack of unity, 
won't win the war. Failure to reduce living to 
simplest terms, lack of self-sacrifice and lack 
of unity, when we marry our girls and found 
our homes — won't win the future. Every fel- 
low you know thinks about just two things, the 
war to-day and home to-morrow, when we have 
cleaned up the job, the home he 's got or the 
home he 's going to make." 

"You fellows that are university guys and 
hang around New York can write your girls 
that they are going to find you just like I am," 
said the cowpuncher. "When I git home, I 'm 
goin' to be damn easy to git along with." 

[201] 



CHAPTER XXI 

THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

I have been reading a profound analysis of 
French feeling written by Margaret Deland 
in an American magazine: 

But after that, the dark. And after that, the 
dawn! It is a Hope! JEons off, perhaps, but a 
Hope. The Hope of the upward curve of the spiral 
after it has dipped into the primeval. Back again, 
these people say, to the beginnings of things, must 
go our miserable little civilization. Back to some 
path of realities, to wash us clean of an unreality 
which has mistaken geographical boundaries for 
spiritual values, and mechanics for God. Then, up 
— up — up — toward the singing heights. 

It took sturdy courage to speak plainly the 
truth about French feeling last winter! The 
"bath of realities" was of blood and pain. 
[202] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

Through suffering France has become intimate 
with God and remembers her immortal soul. 

My little neighbor, Francois, with eyes 
sunken deep in the sockets, tells all this in his 
look. Francois' older brother, Andre, came 
the other morning to ask me to walk over to 
the farm, "To look at Francois' earache," he 
said. 

I went up the road with Andre, through a 
break in the hedge to find a path leading over 
a little bridge, and through Francois' father's 
meadows to the crescent-shaped group of stone 
buildings that forms the center of the farm. 
French peasants house their animals close to 
themselves. As we came toward the front 
door, I pointed to the white cross on the wall 
of the house near the door. 

"I have been told that when that sign ap- 
pears on a Brittany house it means somebody 
is lost — dead at the war. Is that true, 
Andre?" 

"There 's nothing in that," he replied stol- 
[203] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

idly. "It 's where my father tries his brush 
when he whitewashes the rooms in the spring- 
time." 

"Who does the whitewashing now?" I in- 
quired. 

"Always my father. He did not have to 
go to war. We are ten children." 

We entered the low, dark kitchen where 
the family lives. Madame Clouette, a wiry 
woman with anxious, brown eyes, was stirring 
gruel. She took it safely off the tripod, placed 
it on the stone platform of the fireplace, and 
came forward to greet me. 

"It is heaven's pity to disturb Madame," 
she said, drawing out a chair and dusting it 
carefully, "but Madame knows there is no 
doctor and we must turn to the Americans." 

I sat down by the bed and asked Franc/ris 
if he was a good boy. 

"Yes, when he is asleep," laughed his mother. 
"He is of a will power — it is unbelievable, 
Madame!" 

[204] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

"Why are you so skinny, Francois-boy?" I 
asked. 

I took his hand and felt his little fore-arm. 
"Andre told me you have fifty-four cows. Do 
you drink lots of milk?" 

"Will power again, Madame. He won't 
drink milk. Your children are city children 
— probably they love it." 

"How old are you, Francois?" I asked. 

"Eight years," said he, eying the shiny nickel 
case of my thermometer. 

"Good," said I, "then you have sense enough 
to hold this in your mouth without biting it. 
My boy is only seven and he knows how to 
keep a thermometer under his tongue." 

"Poor child," said his mother; "he hasn't 
slept these two nights. The pain gives him 
a fever." 

"There, Francois, do you know what time 
it is in your mouth? It 's a hundred and four. 
Never mind, old man, it means we 've got to 
help you get rid of that pain." 
[205] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"His temperature, is it bad?" asked the 
mother. "Madame will send for a doctor?" 

I telephoned to the hospital when I took the 
eggs to market. The interpreter answered 
that I must get the Dame du Chateau to come, 
and if she said so they would send down a 
doctor. 

"Yes, yes," I assured her, "Andre must take 
his bicycle and hurry to the village and tele- 
phone. Make haste, Andre. Tell them to 
send the ambulance to the chateau and I will 
show them the way here." 

Madame Clouette was all of a flutter. Her 
feelings were mingled, fear for her boy and 
pride that a splendid American ambulance had 
drawn up beside her manure heap. Relatives 
gathered to listen and watch. 

"I 'm afraid I '11 step on some of these kids," 
said the doctor. "What 's the trouble? You 
see we got tired chasing away out here to look 
at mild little cases. You handled that last 
bunch of measles as well as I could. I knew 
[206] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

you would n't mind our passing the buck to 
you. Your preliminary diagnosis saves pre- 
cious time for us. We are always glad to 
come, you understand, when it 's necessary,' ' 
he added hastily. 

"There is big trouble here. I think this 
kid has an abscess in his ear. What makes me 
concerned is that swelling back of the ear." 

The doctor was examining busily, saying, 
"All right, little fellow, we won't hurt you." 
He straightened up and said, "Just as you 
said, an abscess; worse than that — may be 
mastoid, you know. I can't take the respon- 
sibility of this case. We must have Gracy 
out here. Carpenter!" he called, "would you 
mind going right back to the hospital for 
Major Gracy?" (I have yet to hear that doctor 
command anybody. He dispenses with "mili- 
tary stuff.") 

An American car makes seven kilometers 
and back in no time. When he arrived, the 
ear specialist thought quickly. "Prepare 
[207] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

them," he said to me. "I must operate to- 
night." 

I called the father and mother and explained 
that the doctors must have more instruments 
and electric light. "To make a thorough ex- 
amination, dear Madame Clouette." I had 
my arm around her shoulders now. She was 
looking at me intently. Monsieur appeared 
with glasses and a bottle of applejack. "Dis- 
tilled this myself," said he, "the Christmas 
Francois was born." I declined gently for 
the doctors without asking them. Monsieur 
poured a glass for himself and tossed it off 
easily. He wiped his walrus mustache, and 
disappeared. 

"Tell me what they say. O Madame, I 
can bear it, only be frank!" 

"Are they afraid of an operation?" said 
the specialist. "It 's his only chance." He 
handed me a silver funnel to wash. 

"No, no, no, she 's all right. Did you no- 
tice that the daddy went away? Women 

[208] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

don't need suffrage in France. They 've vir- 
tually had it since '70." 

"If we have to take him to the hospital, are 
you willing, Madame?" 

"Out, Madame." Her eyes were tearless 
and the voice was steady. 

"It means an operation, you know." 

"I understand. They will let me come? 
O Madame, I am bold — you will come with 
me?" 

"What is she saying?" asked the Doctor. 

"She is a brick!" I exclaimed. "My soul — 
the mothers of France . . . !" 

I bundled the boy up and took him in my 
arms. 

"Come, sonny," I said, "the doctors are go- 
ing to give us a ride in their automobile. 
Mother is coming too. We are going to take 
you to the hospital to stop the pain. They 
have lemon drops there. Do you know what 
lemon drops are?" 

At the receiving office, two orderlies ar- 
[209] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

ranged Francois on a stretcher, and gave his 
pillow and blanket back to his mother. Three 
or four poilus stood smoking at the door. I 
explained to them about Francois and brought 
them over to talk to him and his mother. 
"You are a soldier?" asked one. "Poilus are 
well off in this house," said another. 

I was giving name, age, etc., to a sergeant at 
a desk. He came to a place where the printed 
slip said rank. . . . 

"Ask him what rank he wants to have," I 
called to one of the French soldiers. 

Even his mother laughed when the little fel- 
low answered promptly, "Me? I 'm a lieu- 
tenant. Lieutenant Francois Clouette." He 
took my hand and smiled. 

"Of a will power," his mother had said. 

We put Francois in a ward with poilus. 
The fellow in the next bed called Francois 
"mon vieux," and as the mother and I left, he 
was telling Francois cheerily, "Thou art 
lucky, little one, to be in this hospital. The 
[210] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

Americans are our brothers. After the war 
I shall go to the United States to get Yankee- 
fied myself." 

The next day I was going into the wards 
with the Red Cross searcher, Miss Crump, to 
read to the patients. I saw Francois about 
noon. They had put him in a private room 
with a special nurse. He was just coming out 
of the ether, and recognized me. Poor lamb, 
the operation had been one of the worst known 
to ear surgeons. 

Ten days later I went to the hospital to be 
present at a consultation on Francois' case. 
The incision was healing nicely. But Francois 
was coughing. Was it pneumonia or were we 
up against an abscess in the lung? 

"I am glad you come," said the Major. 
"You can tell madame straight about Francois. 
She 's been here with him ever since his opera- 
tion. All I can make out is that the woman 
sincerely appreciates what we are doing for the 
boy. Do you know," he continued, "if she had 
[211] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

to pay for this care in a big city back home it 
would cost her a hundred dollars a day?" 

"Uncle Sam's pockets are deep and the 
hearts of his nephews are very warm," I said. 
"Doctor, if you save this boy it will be a 
feather in your cap, and do you realize what 
good propaganda for America that will be?" 

"A physician is never inspired by any other 
thought than saving his case," responded the 
major gravely. "His reward is having the 
opportunity to fight for a human life." 

Francois' day nurse came in with another 
doctor. She had been out to the tent hos- 
pital to get the tuberculosis man. 

The doctors began their consultation. Half 
an hour later, Major Gracy turned to me and 
said, "It is not pneumonia, and there will be no 
further trouble from the ear. Pus has got into 
the lung. A new abscess is there. Tell 
madame." 

"Will he pull through?" 

"We do not know." 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

"Dear Madame Clouette," I began; "you 
and I know we have a very sick little boy 
here." 

The two doctors stood quietly watching me 
as I translated their opinion. 

"I know, I know, Madame. Was I not here 
during those five dreadful hours yesterday 
when he was unconscious ! Did Madame hear 
Prinquiau church bell this morning? The 
cure will say nine prayers for him to-day.'' 

"She is a wonder, that little mother!" said 
Major Gracy, "but there is no use telling her 
yet that the child is clearly the product of 
alcoholic stock and therefore is practically 
sure to get tuberculosis, if not immediately, 
then later. It 's fifty-fifty whether we can 
save him now. His father's applejack will do 
for him later. Oh, the ravages of Brittany 
alcohol!" 

Francois' bird-claw hand fluttered toward 
his throat. Around the bandaged head lay a 
rosary. His mother fixed it for him. He 
[213] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

wheezed and coughed and tried to speak. He 
looked to Major Gracy and held out his hand. 
Then he spoke. 

"Dites, mon vieuw" said he, "donne-moi une 
cigarette!" 

"What 's that?" said the major. 

"He wants to smoke, Doctor," I laughed. 

The major got a Camel out of his pocket, 
and gave it to Francois. "Tell him not to 
light it," said he. "The way the kid goes up 
and down is beyond belief . We '11 save him 
yet." 

The next time I saw Francois he made his 
mother give him his toy basket from the win- 
dow sill. He fished around in the basket and 
found a Lucky Strike box. With trembling 
hands he opened it. 

"Look, Madame, one, two, three, four. 
Every time I don't cry when the major dresses 
my head he gives me a cigarette. I '11 light 
them when I get home." 

"Andre sat up with Francois last night to 
[214] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

let me sleep," said Madame Clouette. "An- 
dre says he won't be a curate when he grows 
up. He wants to be an American because 
they have cigarettes." 

"I can't let the major get ahead of me, 
Francois," I said. "I '11 give you a cigarette 
because I love you. Help yourself." 

"A silver case is better than a pasteboard 
box — I '11 keep that, too." 

His mother gasped. I beckoned to her. 
We went into the corridor. 

"Let him have it, Madame," I urged. "We 
don't dare cross him if we can help it while 
he has that temperature." 

Francois lingered all summer. An abscess 
developed in a tooth that had to be extracted. 
Then another on the leg. Week after week 
we did not know. In August fifty-fifty 
changed to forty-sixty, and then thirty-seventy, 
with Francois on the winning side. 

September found the boy living in a tent. 
In the daytime his bed was out in the sun- 
[215] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

shine. He was still pitifully thin, but his 
cheeks were rosy and the bandages had gone. 
He had a whole box of lemon drops always on 
his table now and could eat two every day. 
American soldiers love kids. They spoiled 
Francois lavishly. He told me that one day 
his friend the aviator came coasting down the 
clouds and did the loop-the-loop for him. 
"Just up there!" he cried, pointing with a 
finger that was steady now. 

We took him home the first of October. 
Major Gracy came to dinner with me after- 
wards. In the evening I read him Margaret 
Deland's article. 

4 'If I 'd read that before I came over here, 
I should not have understood it," said the 
major. "The unquenchable spirit of the 
French. Everything against them, enemy 
hordes sweeping down to ravage and burn and 
poison, and the handicap of past sins and weak- 
nesses to make more difficult, more compli- 
cated, the problem of resistance. They have 
[216] 



THE SINGING HEIGHTS 

held to life through their will power. They 
know they are going to triumph in the end 
— they have known it all along. Victory is 
in sight after they have been down, down, 
down. Francois is France." 

"And those who have not been close to the 
world cataclysm, who have not lived with 
France in her agony, call Mrs. Deland a pes- 
simist," I answered. "But she ends up her 
analysis with 'the singing heights.' We have 
taken Francois home after all these long 
months in the valley of the shadow. Who 
would dare say that the suffering which could 
not crush his spirit has not touched his soul? 
It must be like that, it is like that, with the 
French nation. De profundis — " 

The major completed my thought. "To 
the singing heights," he said. 



[217] 



CHAPTER XXII 

EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS STANDING IN A ROW 

"Are you very tired to-night, Madame?" 
asked Alice, when I came home from the hos- 
pital. 

"Why?" 

"Shortly after you left this morning a small 
convoy stopped, three trucks and four soldiers. 
They were boys that you know. The man in 
command of the convoy calls himself Bill — 
your funny little English name — one of the 
tallest of soldiers and with laughing eyes. 
You told me he had a Western accent. Re- 
member?" 

"The others?" 

"I had them write down their names in the 
guest-book." 

[218] 



EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS 

"I see. Was there a message?" 

"Disappointed not to find you — so disap- 
pointed I told them to stop on their return to- 
night. They said they would be late. That 's 
why, chere Madame, I asked if you were 
tired." 

"I hope you said they must stop, Alice!" 

"I told them if they saw a light in the study 
window — " 

"Good." 

Soldiers that make regular trips past the 
Little Gray Home I call "steadies." Bill is 
a Stanford man who usually travels with an- 
other known as Curly. They go to a forestry 
camp with provisions for the "jungle stiffs," as 
the soldiers that cut lumber in forests are 
called. 

I was reading by the study fire. It was 
after ten. 

Chug-chug-chug — footsteps — voices. 

They know the latch of the door. 

"Bless you, Mrs. Gibbons — you will never 
[219] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

know what it means to us to come into the 
study without knocking. This is a corner of 
home." 

Bill sure enough, and Curly with him. 
Rain-drops glistened on their goggles, and 
their shoulders were wet. 

"Two new friends for you," said Bill, 
"Robert and Eddie. Every time I come here 
I bring a couple of new buddies." 

We shook hands all around, and settled into 
steamer chairs. 

"They don't provide steamer-chairs and sofa 
pillows in the army!" said Eddie, lifting an- 
other cushion from the floor, and bunching it 
comfortably under his head. 

"How about the feet?" I asked, "pretty 
wet?" 

"Soaked! Gee, think of the chilblains next 
winter!" 

"If I can get one of the organizations work- 
ing for the army from the human point of view 
to take over the Little Gray Home when I have 
[220] 



EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS 

to go back to Paris, I will leave some jars of 
chilblain stuff here for you." 

"Never heard of anything that would help I" 

"Yes, there is something!" I urged. "Boil 
chopped-up carrots in lard, then strain into a 
jar. It works all right. Better take off your 
boots," I added, "and toast your toes while 
you can." 

Laughing and tugging. Soon eight rubber 
boots were standing in a row against the wall, 
and on the floor were marks of wet stockings 
going every which way. 

"Those organizations you were speaking 
about," said Bill, "are accomplishing marvels. 
I have seen the good they do here in France 
with my own eyes and in many places." 

"They can do everything," broke in Curly, 
"but treat a soldier special." 

"Sure," said Robert, "and like as not it 
amounts to some glad-hand artist doping out 
sunshine stuff. Gosh, Mrs. Gibbons, there 's 
lots of things a fellow would not do when he 's 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

lonely if he could get to the Little Gray Home 
first. Organizations are on the job, all right, 
but they can't handle the proposition that 
every man-child born is something special. 
There are too many of us for that. This place 
is an oasis. You reach a comparatively small 
number of men here, Mrs. Gibbons, so what 
you do is real." 

"The reason the Little Gray Home idea has 
worked out is that the boys do more for me 
than I do for them." 

"Can't you see, Mrs. Gibbons," said Bill, 
"that the painted woman of the street knows a 
lonely soldier is soon parted from his money, if 
that is the only comfort he can get? You get 
there first. You get under a fellow's skin 
not by fussing, not by elaborate hostessing, and 
not by condescension. You flash a vision of 
home before us! I have seen rough-necks 
come in here and undergo a subtle change. 
They tune up their conduct to the pitch of an 
[222] 



EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS 

American home. Mrs. Gibbons is for the en- 
listed man, and the fellows know it." 

"You bet you!" cried Curly. "She makes 
friends with you exactly as if you were a civil- 
ian. If you are a university man, she gets 
you. She does n't care that you are only a 
damn buck private. If you 're a rough-neck, 
that does n't matter either. A fellow who 
comes here is busy, frequently tired, and some- 
times sullen, or tingling with resentment be- 
cause he is a round peg in a square hole. His 
lieutenant is perhaps not half the man that he 
is and has given him a raw deal." 

"Don't make me sprout wings like that. 
You know if you want people to like your 
friends, you must n't praise them too much. I 
want Eddie and Robert to feel like coming 
back another time. Bill, don't you want to 
look in the cupboard there and get some can- 
dles ? They are in a tin box on the second shelf 
to the left." 

[223] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

Bill snuffed out old candle stumps with new 
ones. 

"Candles!" said he, "kind of takes you back 
to your grandmother's time you can't remem- 
ber. I come from a Western ranch. We 
have a farm lighting plant on the ranch. Dad 
harnessed up our waterfall, and we make our 
own electricity. Before I came into the army, 
candles were something that lived on birthday 
cakes and Christmas trees." 

"Makes a pretty light, though,'' said 
Robert; "there are lots of inconveniences that 
we are getting used to." 

I was putting sugar in the bowls. Robert 
started the bread and butter around. 

"I think it is a pretty poor stunt," said I, 
"to give you boys coffee at eleven o'clock at 
night. What you really ought to have is hot 
chocolate. It's much more nourishing, but I 
can't get it." 

"Say, you can't get chocolate?" said Curly. 
[224] 



EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS 

Turning to the others he went on, "Let 's bring 
her some of that chocolate we ranked the other 
day." 

"Here, I want to get that word. Ranked — 
what does it mean?" 

"We drive our trucks along docks. Nig- 
gers are unloading ships. A fellow drops a 
box off his wheelbarrow. It cracks open, and 
the stuff gets scattered on the railroad tracks. 
We have motor trouble accidentally on pur- 
pose, and when we shut up our tool-box again, 
in goes a bunch of chocolate boxes with the 
tools. We rank that chocolate, see? You 
don't steal anything in the army, you rank 
it." 

"Nice little habits we '11 take back to the 
States!" said Bill. "When I was home and 
dinner time came, if I didn't like what was 
there I 'd get up and walk out of the house. 
Eat somewhere else, see? After I enlisted, 
they made me cook for a while. Wheel 
[225] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

When I get back, I '11 eat any meal my wife 
is good enough to set on the table. I should n't 
care how greasy it was." 

"Say," said Eddie, "after the war, when we 
go home, we 11 be sitting in the little old 
cabaret, and when the clock says nine-thirty, 
we '11 just naturally beat it. That 's some- 
thing we 're going to do for months." 

"That 's what we 've got to do now," said 
Bill; "beat it." 

"Before I leave," said Robert, "I want to 
give you something." 

He got out his purse. 

"Promise me never to give it away." He 
handed me an American penny. 

"The only cent I had on French soil for six 
weeks!" 



[226] 



CHAPTER XXIII 

GOING HOME 

"You all are leaving us when we need you 
most. Winter 's the worst time for fellows 
on trucks/' said Joe. The sergeant from 
Kentucky had brought a pal to show him the 
Little Gray Home. The Y chief of this 
base and a secretary from Akron, Ohio, had 
dropped in for tea. 

"But, Joe," I urged, "the chief here thinks 
I have started something, and when the north 
wind blows and the rain comes slanting down 
to make the road ooze with mud you will still 
have hot coffee and a good fire at the Little 
Gray Home." 

"Gives me a funny feeling, too," said the 
chief. "This house surely looks like moving 
[227] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

day. I wish you were twins, Mrs. Gibbons. 
I am having a devil of a time finding somebody 
to take up your work." 

The chief was born in Ireland. He is a 
good scout, the best Y. M. C. A'ster I know. 
Jolly and wise and human. You wouldn't 
believe him if he told you his age any more 
than I do. Khaki uniforms do not hide big 
men. Big men we want over here. None is 
too big to handle the business of looking after 
our boys. 

The secretary from Akron, whom I had 
picked out to take over my job, broke up a 
bundle of fagots and started a fire. From 
my steamer-chair beside the tea-table I spread 
out my hands to the blaze. 

"They say any fool can build a fire," said I, 
"but it takes a philosopher to keep one burn- 
ing." 

"Mrs. K. and I have done heaps of camping 
together," he answered, squatting down and 
tipping the tripod until it was solid and level 
[228] 



GOING HOME 

enough to hold a saucepan of water for our 
tea. "I'd jump at this Little Gray Home 
job if I had her over here. She 'd make this 
place hum." 

I was sympathetic. "Of course we under- 
stand that all wives can't come. If some did 
others would want to, naturally. We must not 
get a howling mob of incapables over here. 
But it is tough on the work you are doing that 
some wives of secretaries are lost to us. A 
man and his wife in a Y. M. C. A. hut could 
do the work of three secretaries because they 
understand each other and are used to working 
together." I warmed to my subject. 

We were comfortably settled by this time, 
waiting for the water to boil. Madame Criaud 
brought bread and butter. 

"I want to organize an American Woman's 
Battalion. Two would be better, one for 
Home Service and the other to replace men 
who fret back here in the Service of Supplies. 
Why do we let Englishwomen get ahead of 
[229] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

us!" I cried. "We could follow the telephone 
service by taking over most of the clerking 
work. We could even be truck drivers. Eng- 
lish girls are. It 's no experiment. In my 
scheme there is a Woman's Postal Battalion 
with home and foreign sections. Make the 
requirements : 

"a. She has money of her own or needs to 
earn a living; 

"b. She has a college or high school educa- 
tion or business experience; 

"c. She has a brother, father, lover, or hus- 
band in the army. 

"Women would know they had a better job 
than knitting. And you bet the boys would 
get their letters. Then, women's colleges 
could form hospital units. They could do all 
the typing and paper work and think how val- 
uable woman's genius for detail would be in 
keeping records for hospital statistics. Bryn 
Mawr could take over all that work at Base 
Hospital Number 8, Smith could take the hos- 

[230] 



GOING HOME 

pital at the Holy City, Vassar the one at the 
City of the Edict, and so on. As Abe and 
Mawress say in the Potash and Perlmutter 
stories, 'Am I rrrrright or wrrrrrong?' ' 

The chief and the secretary from Akron 
beamed indulgently. The chief, however, 
kind and just when it comes to the other fel- 
low's ideas, observed: "I know that is one of 
your hobbies, Mrs. Gibbons. There 's some- 
thing in it, too, for it would release for the 
front a lot of those boys who sing rather bit- 
terly, 

'Mother, take down your Service flag, 
Your boy is at — ' " 

The secretary from Akron, Ohio, was away 
off somewhere. "She could make it hum. I 
know she could," he murmured. 

I started to pour. Madame Criaud went to 
call daddy and the children. 

"Ready for tea, Daddy?" I asked. 

"We are nearly through out there," he an- 
[231] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

swered. "Just got the roll of bedding. 
Don't forget, no sugar for me, please." 

"The chief and I are going to help the boys 
load that baggage into the ambulance. 
You 've done enough, Doctor," said the secre- 
tary from Akron, Ohio. 

The kids with their hats and coats on were 
sitting in a row on the croquet box. Baby 
was having her bread and milk in the kitchen. 

"What have you there, son?" asked daddy. 

"School books," said Lloyd. 

"Better give them to me, dear, to put in my 
bag." 

"No, Daddy," said Lloyd, "I need 'em." 

"When these children were babies we read 
guide-books to help us decide where to go 
next," said daddy. "Now there 's no question 
about it. The first of October means home." 

The problem of getting my establishment to 
Paris was solved for me by the lieutenant at 
the Motor Reception Park. He told me the 
next convoy could take all of my baggage. 

[232] 



GOING HOME 

"What would look like a lot to you would be 
lost in one of our trucks. We can take your 
stuff just as easy as not," he said. The lieu- 
tenant's thoughtfulness made it possible to 
make the journey "in two jumps." Daddy, 
who had been here for a week's vacation, would 
take children, governess, and servants with 
him, and leave the baggage to me. Letters 
from Paris have been saying that the grippe 
and yet more reduction in the number of trains 
are compelling summer people returning to 
town to wait sometimes eight days for the lug- 
gage. Congestion of traffic this year is in- 
creased because none knew till the last moment 
whether schools would open. Our notice from 
the Ecole Alsacienne came only a week ago. 
Now the family would travel light-armed — 
suit-cases and the baby's bedding-roll would go 
into the compartment with them. 

Joe poked his head in the door. 

"How about pulling freight?" said he. 

We piled into the ambulance and were off 
[233] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

for the station. The Y men came along to 
help. Mimi was on the front seat of the am- 
bulance. Joe's pal, who has a little girl go- 
ing on six, took her on his lap. 

"Look how riding along fast makes Henry 
Ford swing on his perch!" cried Christine. 

"Oh! Watcha give it that name for!" 
laughed Joe; "that 's not made of tin; that 's 
a pretty white bird — dove of peace." 

"What shall we have for a name, then?" 
asked Christine. ' 'Cause, you didn't know? 
— Henry laid an egg yesterday and Mama 
says we have to change his name." 

The most dignified sergeant in the army is 
the railroad transport officer at the Savenay 
station. 

"The Paris train is on time to-day, Doctor," 
said the sergeant; "it will come in on the first 
track. If you will all just wait here by the 
news-stand, I will find you a compartment." 

Lloyd was the last one of the crowd to get 
into the train. I had to drag him away from 
[234] 



GOING HOME 

a poster showing a life-size poilu, wresting the 
last silken folds of the flag from the clutches of 
the German eagle. 

"S-o-u-s-c-r-i-v-e-z a V-e~m-p-r-u-n-t. 
What's that, Mama?" 

"It means give your pennies to the poilus. 
Hurry, darling!" 

The locomotive was telling us the last sec- 
ond had come by ringing a bell— so we knew it 
was American. 

A French sailor ran from the hydrant where 
he had been filling his canteen — he lifted Lloyd 
up to daddy. The train moved. American 
soldiers in cattle-cars, hitched on at the end, 
were singing, 

"Where do we go from here, boys, 
Where do we go from here?" 



[2$5~\ 



CHAPTER XXIV 

U. S. 911,350 

Truck No. 911,350 swung up the road and 
came to a full stop in front of our house. I 
ran out to see who had come. Sergeant 
George jumped to the ground and saluted. 
He has hair the color of taffy and is headed 
soon for the officers' training school. 

"You have done lots of favors for us boys," 
said he; "now we are going to do something 
for you." 

"The boys are always doing things for me. 
That is why the Little Gray Home idea has 
worked out. Who is the other boy with you?" 

"Don't know him very well," said George. 

"He knows you though. He 's been cooking 

in the colonel's mess. The last time you 

lunched there, he says you went out into the 

[236] 



U. S. 911,350 
kitchen and washed your hands at the sink. 
The boys still remember how tickled you were 
with the hot water spiggot. Say! people at 
home don't yet realize what women like you 
have been up against, keeping house on the 
edge of the world's battle-field." He 
wrenched the big iron hook off the other half of 
the gate, and called to the boy in the truck. 

"You can back her in here if you go easy. 
Mrs. Gibbons, we will just run the truck close 
to the door so we can load your stuff. This is 
Zim, who is detailed to convoy the truck to 
Paris with me." 

The boys piled my baggage in the back end 
of U. S. 911,350. George roped the canvas 
flap down solidly at the back of the truck. I 
was satisfied that none of my bundles would 
drop off. Zim was at the wheel putting on his 
gloves. George came around the front of the 
machine to make sure that the saucy celluloid 
Kewpie doll was securely tied to its place on 
the radiator. 

[237] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"You '11 have a fine trip," said I. 

"We will have a fine trip, I '11 tell the world," 
said he. "Why don't you come along?" 

"I '11 do it," said I. 

It took two minutes to put on my things and 
arrange with Madame Criaud about the key 
to the house. U. S. 911,350 moved slowly and 
carefully through the gate. George was sing- 
ing: 

"We were sailing along, 
On Moonlight Bay." 

We were sailing along, too, on the road to 
Savenay. Above the hum of the motor, 1 
heard Zim say: "You didn't suspect you 
were going to be kidnaped and taken back 
home to Paris like this." 

We pulled up for a few minutes in front of 
the hospital. I hurried in to say good-by and 
to get the handsome sergeant-major to take 
my papers to be stamped by the M. P. The 
head nurse and other friends came out to the 
car with me. My boys from the garrage, 
[238] 



U. S. 911,350 

across the road, had crowded around to take a 
look at the long-heralded Liberty motor. Not 
till then did I realize that I was going to have 
the honor of riding to Paris on the first Liberty 
truck. The boys explained that the Liberty 
truck is supposed to be like a certain type- 
writer, a combination of all the good points in 
other machines. The only criticism I heard 
them make was that you have to transfer your 
gasoline from the reserve tank in a pail. You 
ought to be able to pump it. 

It was n't easy to say good-by. It has been 
a happy summer. Aunt Patty, as the chil- 
dren called the head nurse, gave me her coat 
and leggings. Busy people always have time 
to do nice little things. The colonel came out 
of his office, and said cheerfully: "We don't 
like to make a scene right now, but our hearts 
are broken." 

U. S. 911,350 moved slowly. 

"Come to me for Christmas in Paris," I 
cried. 

[239] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

Now we were well under way, and, like 
Uncle Wiggly Long Ears, were looking for an 
adventure. George and Zim are young, but 
too old to know the Garis stories about Uncle 
Wiggly Long Ears, the rabbit gentleman who 
puts on his tall silk hat, takes his red, white, 
and blue barber-pole rheumatism crutch, leaves 
Nurse Jane, his muskrat lady housekeeper, and 
goes out to look for an adventure. 

Before dark we did sixty kilometers. We 
arrived at Nort, a village you never heard of. 
Backing U. S. 911,350 to park it in the yard 
of the Hotel de Bretagne brought us our first 
adventure. The chassis of a Liberty motor is 
long and the wheels far apart. The truck 
bumped into the gate and knocked down some 
of it. It made a hole in the grating and pulled 
down the solid wall that was only plaster — for 
all the world like showy f acades in Turkey. 

"Gee! I thought a German bomb had hit 
that gate," said Zim, when we were sitting 
down to dinner. A bald-headed little French- 
[240] 



U. S. 911,350 

man was the only other diner. We bowed and 
shook hands all around. George whispered to 
me, "What do you bet his profession is?" 

"Traveling salesman," I answered. 

We named him Uncle Willy. Uncle Willy 
made a noise when he ate his soup, but his ob- 
servations about peace talk were shrewd. The 
boys fed him cigarettes. Cigarettes are scarce 
in rural France these days. You make a 
friend instantly if you begin conversation by 
opening your cigarette case. Good and abun- 
dant food is also scarce. And we had a-room- 
for-more feeling after dinner was finished. I 
could think only of bowls of tilleul to fill in the 
chinks. That would at least give us something 
hot, and an excuse to continue eating bread. 
Madame might have enough sugar to make it 
satisfyingly sweet. Madame had no sugar. 
Uncle Willy rose, gave his napkin another safe 
hitch into his waistcoat, got out the keys on the 
end of his watch chain, and unlocked a little 
trunk which sat on two chairs in the corner. 
[241] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

Sure enough, it was a sample trunk, and from 
it Uncle Willy produced sugar for the tilleul. 
Zim nearly choked, and George had to say 
something funny quickly. 

We left Nort the next morning before eight 
o'clock. Zim cast his eye cautiously now as 
we turned narrow corners in the village street. 
He was afraid of taking down more walls. 

"You can testify, Mrs. Gibbons, that it was 
made of plaster. They will surely try to make 
Uncle Sammy pay with honest concrete. 
These Frogs," continued Zim, between puffs at 
a dope-stick (a Fatima cigarette in soldier 
slang) , "these Frogs don't pay any attention to 
traffic. Walk right along where they are go- 
ing, and drive old nags and donkeys without 
listening to horns. The way they cross streets 
down at the Holy City made us tired long ago. 
It 's risky for 'em now. For we Ve gotten 
over paying attention, either." 

"That 's all right. You 're learning French 
[242] 



U. S. 911,350 

ways," I answered. "You know in Paris, if 
you get run over, it 's your fault." 

"Gee! that is a back-handed way. Do you 
mean that? . . . Well, I never!" 

"Yes, you have to defend yourself for get- 
ting run over — they will arrest you for it." 

"For the grown-ups I don't care. But the 
kids. Say, Mrs. Gibbons, the other day I was 
going through a narrow street. A little girl 
ran out from the curb. She was n't more than 
four feet ahead of the front wheels. Brake 
and horn were no good. I did the only possi- 
ble thing — made a sharp turn to the left. I 
grazed the little thing enough to make her fall 
over, but she was n't hurt." 

"What happened to you?" 

"Stuck to the seat of the truck and came up 
inside a cafe. Smashed it." 

"You must have stirred up some excite- 
ment," said I. 

"Well, I should say ! The owner was very 
[243] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

polite. Complimented me on my good judg- 
ment — kid was his, see?" 

"That was generous of him." 

"Was for a fact. But — there was a fat 
Frenchman in there drinking. He held his 
beer glass up high and backed till he sat down 
on a hot stove. Burnt the seat of his trousers 
clean off. He was the only person in the 
crowd that got mad." 

"You will think you ought to have had your 
life insured before you trusted Zim's driving," 
said George. "But I take my life in my hands 
every time I ride with these French chauffeurs. 
We delivered a bunch of cars, Fords they were, 
on the French front last week. I am reminded 
more and more of the difference between riding 
with a Frenchman and an American as illus- 
trated in this story: When you are with an 
American and you have a puncture you say, 
'Oh, hell, there goes a tire.' When you are 
with a Frenchman you say, 'Thank God, that 's 
only a tire.' " 

[244] 



U. S. 911,350 

We "plugged right along," as the boys put 
it, all morning. At noon we came to the vil- 
lage of St. Georges. 

"What do you say we get some coffee here 
to make us hold out till Angers," proposed 
George. "I '11 stand treat because of the name 
of the place." 

U. S. 911,350 went slowly through the street 
— there was only one street — and we were look- 
ing for the best place. The Inn of the Red 
Hat took our eye. When we entered, we 
found ourselves in a dark kitchen with a row of 
burnished copper saucepans above the fire- 
place. Madame, in a spotless white cap, was 
blinking her eyes and singing an incantation 
over a pot on the fire. She shut savory steam 
back into the pot with the lid and turned to 
shake hands with us. Monsieur was smoking 
a brown clay pipe near by. The daughter 
came bustling in from the tiny dining-room 
where she had arranged bowls and bread and 
Gruyere cheese. As we sat down at the larger 
[245] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

of the two tables, we noticed another tiny one, 
set with white cloth and special china. The 
table napkin had embroidered initials. 

"What do you know about that!" exclaimed 
Zim 

"Must be a star boarder," I ventured. 

"Something smells awfully good," says Zim. 

I asked Marie what was in the air. Marie 
explained : "Civet de lievre" 

"What the dickens is that. Let 's have 
some !" said George and Zim together. 

"Bunny stew," said I. "This means we 5 11 
not try to hold out till Angers." 

A French lady took her place at the special 
table. George nudged Zim's elbow and whis- 
pered: "Star boarder." 

She explained to me that she had come here 
early in April. "Much better to be in a little 
place like this off the beaten track. Big hotels 
on main routes are impossible these days for 
good food. Americans everywhere! I ran 
away from the Grosse Bertha," she laughed. 
[246] 



U. S. 911,350 

"Just happened in for lunch the way you did 
to-day, and I Ve stayed ever since." 

When we got back to U. S. 911,350 a boy 
scout was on the truck. He jumped down to 
the pavement, and greeted us in very good 
English. He told us that immediately upon 
the entrance of America in the war he had be- 
gun to study it by himself. Since then he 'd 
had lots of chance to practise. As we pulled 
up the street, I looked back. He was stand- 
ing there, still saluting. 

We reached the motor park in Angers about 
two o'clock and found Lieutenant Black in his 
office. I had been wishing to meet him all 
summer. Boys coming through from Angers 
and going through my place have all said of 
him, "He 's a prince!" He told me about his 
special barracks and the extra beds in his own 
room where he makes boys comfortable when 
they stop there with convoys. 

Loud detonations came from the square in 
front of the barracks buildings. "Target 
[247] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

practice makes a terrific noise, does n't it?" said 
the lieutenant. "Want to see the boys fire?" 
The lieutenant's office was near a big gate in 
a stone wall. "The Blank Teenth Engineers 
are stationed here." Squads with bayonets 
were moving out of the gate. Others were re- 
turning from a hike. They had on gas masks. 
Another group came in with bath towels and 
wrung-out washing over their arms. 

"This place is a busy one," said the lieu- 
tenant. "They are shipping men right to the 
front all the time." 

"Dear me," said George after we had left 
the lieutenant, "those boys going to the front! 
Some contrast to us who have to stay in the 
S. O. S. Oh, but, Mrs. Gibbons, you have n't 
met Robby. Robby is n't itching to go to 
the front the way we are. He never gets mad 
when the Y. M. C. A. secretary tries to com- 
fort fellows here in the Service of Supplies by 
telling them, 'Somebody has to do it, you 
know.' 

[248] 



U. S. 911,350 

"The other night the Sergeant brought in 
some letters. There was one for Robby. 
Robby 's twenty-eight and drafted. He was 
reading along. Suddenly he jumped up, put 
his hand to his forehead, and shouted, 'The son 
of a gun !' 

"We watched him, amazed. He went on 
talking: 'They 've rejected my brother on ac- 
count of having false teeth. Look at me.' 
Here he pulled out his own full upper set, 
waved it around in one hand and the letter in 
the other." 

From three p. m. until eleven we made one 
hundred and six miles. Our one stop was at 
La Fleche. Here we met a Y. M. C. A. sup- 
erintendent of construction. While the boys 
helped him repair his Ford, I found a cafe on 
the square, and ordered bread and coffee. 
When the boys came in, they found me talking 
with the young girl who had prepared coffee 
for us. 

[249] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"What have you been saying to make her 
blush so, Mrs. Gibbons ?" 

"Nothing much," I answered. "I simply 
told her she was too pretty to stay single and 
wanted to know why she did n't get married." 

Dimples had slipped out to the kitchen and 
now came walking back into the cafe, holding 
hands with a poilu. 

"For goodness' sake, boys, look at this; she 
is introducing her fiance to us." 

But my boys are not interested in prospec- 
tive matrimony. When they saw that the girl 
— a pretty little thing, she was — had eyes only 
for her own soldier, they were ready to start, 
and we got under way. 

We were not yet out of the village, when 
George said, "Look what I got cranking that 
Y man's Ford." 

"Some swell finger," commented Zim; "bet- 
ter get something to put on it." 

The middle finger of poor George's left hand 
[250] 



U. S. 911,350 

was quivering with pain. The nail was al- 
ready black. I gave Zim my hot water bottle 
and told him to run back and ask Dimples to 
fill it. George and I found a pharmacy. 
Just as the pharmacien finished dressing the 
finger, Zim came speeding across the square. 

"They don't even know what a hot water 
bottle is," he shouted. "How do you tell them 
to pour in hot water? I unscrewed it, and 
made the proper motions. Nothing doing. 
00 -la-la, when I get back to camp I simply 
must study this lingo." 

At Le Mans we stopped at the motor park to 
find the way out of town. It was a pity the 
dark came so quickly, for all we saw of the 
cathedral was a pile of black stone. We talked 
with two soldiers who, curiously enough, were 
both from Ohio and both called Anderson. 
They said a truck was just leaving in the Paris 
direction and all we had to do was to follow. 
We could see only its little red tail-light. 
[251] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"That fellow must have taken his governor off 
and put the seal in his pocket. He 's going 
some," said George. 

"For all the world like Tinker Bell in 'Peter 
Pan/ " said I. "And just about as hard to 
follow." 

Follow we did. U. S. 911,350 nearly came 
to grief a thousand times in the ten miles' 
chase between the town and the crossroads 
where Tinker Bell stopped. Tinker Bell 
trudged across the pebbly road till he came 
to the side of our truck. Swinging himself on 
the step and peering at us through his goggles, 
"Pardon me," said he — "do you know where 
we are?" 

"Why, Tinker Bell," I exclaimed, "are n't 
you ashamed of yourself! We thought you 
knew the way. They told us at the park to 
keep right along with you until we reached 
some crossroads where you would leave us and 
we would make a sharp turn to the right !" 

"Is that what you call me — Tinker Bell? 
[252] 



U. S. 911,350 

Not so bad ! I 'm about as good a guide as 
that flighty fairy might be. The first time my 
mother took me to the theater, it was to see 
Maude Adams in Teter Pan.' " 

"Let 's figure it out on the map," suggested 
George. He felt back of the gasolene tank 
for his map. It was gone! Tinker Bell un- 
packed his pockets to find another, and soon 
the boys were poring over it together. 

"Seems as though somebody had taken a fist- 
full of Nogents and scattered them all over the 
map of France," observed George. "Here 's 
Nogent-le-Roi, Nogent-le-Rotrou, and No- 
gent-sur-Eure." 

"And Nogent-Villars," added Zim, placing 
his forefinger on the outspread map. 

"Well, any way, it 's this Nogent-le-Rotrou 
we 're making for," said George. "I will just 
get my search-light and take a look at the sign 
board." 

With astonishing rapidity and confidence 
they worked out the way. I have no sense of 
[253] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

direction. After a smoke, Tinker Bell left 
us and went back to his truck. When we got 
to the sharp turn (luckily we had been on the 
right track the whole time), Tinker tooted a 
lusty and friendly farewell and disappeared 
into the night. 

It was long past dinner-time, but we had 
decided to cut out "eats" in order to cover 
ground. About nine-thirty we came to a 
group of houses hardly big enough to be called 
a village. We stopped for a rest and a bite. 
I got to talking with the woman who brought 
us food and came upon the universal tragedy: 
her only son killed last month in the big offen- 
sive. Weeping bitterly, she protested that she 
could not take our money for the bowls of hot 
milk. 

"Ah, my poor Jean," she sobbed, "he was 
tall and straight and blue-eyed like the soldier 
there. It is for him. These boys must avenge 
his death. Twenty-one boys from this village 
of Saint-Mars-de-Brieres are dead." 
[254] 



U. S. 911,350 

When we pulled into La Ferte Bernard it 
was eleven o'clock. Zim and I waited in the 
truck while George tried to wake somebody. 
We could see him inside the hotel archway 
flashing his searchlight on doors and knocking. 
Finally a man and his daughter appeared, ex- 
cited and dismayed because they already had 
twelve milit aires Americains in the house. 

"Come on in," called George; "she thinks the 
Americans at the coast have broken loose and 
are all going to the front." 

When I came into the dining-room next 
morning my two boys were there before me. 

"Good morning!" said George. "We got a 
hustle on and the truck is all ready to start as 
soon as we finish breakfast. I was just saying 
to Zim that if a fellow saw this floor when 
he 'd been drinking — " 

The floor was made of tiles, gray diamonds 
and black diamonds fitted into one another. 
It gave the effect of cubes with retreating cor- 
ners, forever mounting. 

[255] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

"He 'd think it was a staircase," observed 
Zim, "and would try to walk up it." 

We had made such an early get-away from 
La Ferte Bernard that by the time we reached 
Nogent we were ready for another breakfast. 
Here we had a dainty and delicious meal, just 
coffee and bread, but so good and pleasantly 
served by a mother and her daughter who run 
a cafe alone. The father is at the front. 
While we were ordering the breakfast, George 
went over to a barber shop to get a shave. He 
had come back now and was beginning to eat 
when a rosy-cheeked boy, dressed in white linen 
coat and apron, ran in and handed him a one 
hundred franc note. 

"I had n't missed it !" exclaimed George, as 
he fished in his map-case to get out cigarettes 
for the boy. "That reminds me," said he. 
"Wait a minute. I must buy another map." 

"Let me pay for it," I begged; "then I can 
keep it as a souvenir of the trip." 

George and I talked about Chartres. Zim 
[256] 



U. S. 911,350 

was for speeding. He wanted to hurry by all 
the cathedrals between Nogent and Paris. 
But when he saw the spires of Chartres he 
jumped out first and made for the cathedral. 
In the end we had to drag him away. We 
could not remain in our medieval dream. 
There is no place in France to-day where the 
war does not thrust itself upon your attention. 
As we left Chartres, aeroplanes were whirring 
and doing trick flying all over the town. 

But now we were all three for speeding. 
Paris had to be made by evening, I had in- 
vited guests for dinner, and they would be 
waiting for us. We had no time to see the 
chapel where Louis XIV married Madame de 
Maintenon. We hurried through Rambouil- 
let, skirting the forest. We went through 
Versailles before it was too dark to see the 
thousand French autos parked in front of the 
Palace. Paris drew us. Over the Seine at 
Boulogne, and along the ugly avenue that leads 
to the Point du Jour. The Arc de Triomphe 
[257] 



A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE 

loomed before us. In the gloaming it seemed 
to be floating, detached from the hill. To me 
it was coming home. And to the boys ? They 
were under the spell of the world's fairy city. 
We coasted carefully down the Champs Ely- 
s6es into the Place de la Concorde. 

At the Little Gray Home I had not been 
reading the newspapers. My cry was of 
amazement as well as of joy. For the first 
time since August, 1914, 1 saw the Place de la 
Concorde ablaze with light. There were can- 
non everywhere, German cannon — cannon that 
had been silenced forever by our victorious 
armies. The Place was black with Parisians 
who had come to see what is the most eloquent 
testimony of the change of the past few months, 
a change wrought by the presence of the Amer- 
ican army in France, by the Georges and Zims 
who had come from the New World for the 
crusade of the twentieth century. 

THE END 

[258] 



Deacldified usina ^ Bmkk 

n J *■ a 

PreservationTechnologies 

11 1 Thomson Park Drive 

Ss^sr* PA16066 



